


Washed Up On Your Shores

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Jaime goes to Tarth, Podfic Welcome, Pregnancy, The Braime Bunch, season 8 AU, splits off after episode 8.04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: He'd left Winterfell to kill his sister, because it needed to be done and because he was the only one who both could get close enough and was willing to besmirch his honour with such an act. And after that was done and the Accord was made, there hadn't been a place for him, not in King's Landing, not Casterly Rock, not anywhere in Westeros.After everything, Jaime goes to Tarth





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is me, scurrying away with my arms and coat pockets full of characters, dodging the showwriters' grasping hands and taking them back to my own sandbox. So here they did get together in Winterfell (though in my mind it was still a lot less 'drunk shag' than in canon) and Jaime did leave, but that's it. No stupid OOC conversations etc.
> 
> Endless thanks to [Owlship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlship) for indulging my need for ceilingcatting and validation.

Jaime followed a guard into the keep, trying to unclench his hand. He hadn't been sure if they'd let him in, but it seemed like the Lord of Tarth offered hospitality to wanderers who presented themselves at the gate.

Evenfall Hall during the evening meal was a calm place, two tables full of people, quiet conversation in low voices. If once his arrival would have drawn the attention of every single person there, it did not do so now. He followed the servant to where the Lord of Tarth was seated with his daughter. She looked up.

"Ser."

He didn't know what he'd expected Brienne's voice to sound like, when she saw him. Surprised, probably. Even shocked.

What news from the mainland had come to Tarth? The end of the war, some months ago, and the Accord, for sure. The death of Cersei, allowing the previous two things to happen, had surely been part of it. _How_ that had come to pass might not have made its way here; nobody had been eager to speak of it, after the fact. Nobody had been eager to have Jaime around to remind them of the unsavoury nature in which they — In which _he_ — had prevented a devastating war.

He'd left Winterfell to kill his sister, because it needed to be done and because he was the only one who both could get close enough and was willing to besmirch his honour with such an act. And after that was done and the Accord was made, there hadn't been a place for him, not in King's Landing, not Casterly Rock, not anywhere in Westeros. A kingslayer twice over, a kinslayer to boot. A man who'd broken the biggest oaths anyone could break. Who'd want him around as a reminder of what had passed? The Lannister family come to an inglorious end. If only Tywin could have seen his golden son trade his horse and his last coin for a passage to Tarth on a fishing boat.

Did he have a right to come here and seek out Brienne and ask for… well in truth, for anything, at all? After the way he'd left her in Winterfell, after the things he'd said, probably not. But he had nowhere else to go, and if she had no wish to see him he hoped she might be willing to give him a position in the coast patrol force, or some other defence position. Some way to earn his keep and use his skills.

So here he was, brought into the Evenfall Hall during the evening meal, feeling like he'd washed up on Tarth's shores like so much flotsam.

Her voice when she addressed him - she hadn't even said his name - had a dull sort of wariness, the way she used to sound at the start of their acquaintance. The way he'd tried so hard to break through, to get some animation from her, some genuine emotion. He hadn't dared to hope for a happy reaction upon seeing him, for a tearful reunion, a warm welcome. Which was just as well.

If he'd occasionally allowed himself to fantasise about closing her into his arms, well. She did not rise from her seat at the dinner table, next to a very tall grey-bearded man with eyes of the same bright-sapphire blue. This could only be her father, Lord Selwyn of Tarth.

Jaime could only stare at her for long moments. She looked— _good_. Healthy. She wore a familiar sort of long jerkin, but well-cut of a good fabric, embroidered around the collar, and her hair was longer than it used to be, braided back in a subtly elegant way. He remembered the lean lines of her, hardened by life on the road and by the scarcity of the North. she'd softened some with good food and easier living, and it looked good on her.

"Lord Selwyn, Ser Lady Brienne," he said with a bow, his voice sounding more serious than he'd wished it to. Perhaps that was better. He couldn't expect to fall back into an old pattern of teasing and baiting, after all that had happened. Some of the people at the table gave him odd looks. Was it for how he'd addressed her? Did they not know she was a knight?

Brienne turned to her father and spoke in an undertone, and then gestured for a servant. In very short order somebody set a plate for Jaime at the table - at the end of the table, between what seemed to be some people of minor consequence. He supposed that was him, now. He wouldn't have cared if it hadn't put him too far from Brienne to have a conversation.

Not that he was at all sure what he might have said to her, in company. Probably better not to have been given the opportunity.

He caught her glance a time or two during the meal, tried to smile at her, but she quickly looked away again. The table was largely silent, not in a dour sort of way, though he once would have said so, used to the carefully considered conversations and performative levity at court. No, this seemed merely the way of both father and daughter, not quick to make conversation for the sake of it, but an amiable enough company.

Jaime used a napkin to wipe clean his hook - he'd finally gotten rid of the hated heavy metal hand - and with great satisfaction held down the meat while he carved off a portion. At least he could do that for himself now. He should have insisted on a hook much sooner, but it had been Cersei who'd been so disgusted with his lack of hand and he'd dutifully disguised it. To the detriment of his own functioning, he'd discovered once he'd finally gotten a hook. It really was far more useful. And not a bad thing that it was a lot less recognisable than that damn hand.

 

When the meal was over, Brienne rose to her feet and Jaime automatically rose with her, only to freeze. The table had hid the—her, her stomach. The curve of her belly. She turned away without glancing in his direction, speaking to her father about some policy matter.

She was with _child_.

It was seven moons ago that he'd left her at Winterfell, and she looked like she was around that far along, though it looked different on her large frame than Cersei had looked. He couldn't imagine how it would not be his.

Gods, _how_ had he not even considered this a possibility? They'd shared a bed for no more than a week, but even so it wasn't like it would have taken a chance miracle.

Perhaps with the tales all his life of how long it could take to conceive - Tywin talking about how long it had taken himself to finally get heirs, court whispers of 'How long have they been wed? And still nothing?' about such and such noble, and even the six years and many lost pregnancies it had been before Cersei had carried Joffrey to term… perhaps the idea that a few short nights of sharing a bed might do it hadn't been close enough to mind. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to consider the possibility.

Perhaps, an even less flattering thought, with all his appreciation for her as knight and woman both, he had still utterly neglected to consider that she ran the same risk as every other woman when allowing a man into her bed without a wedding.

He was still frozen at the table, lost in thought, when a servant came to politely show him to a guest room.

It wasn't anything fancy, but he'd been sleeping in hedgerows - an uncomfortable similarity to crossing Westeros with Brienne - so the bed felt like heaven under his weary back.

Gods, a _child_. And she wanted nothing to do with him, which he couldn't blame her for.

At least she seemed to be accepted by her father and her people, even unwed.

He had a cold stone in his gut at the idea of having fathered another child he wouldn't be allowed to be a father to. He should have—he'd _planned_ to— ask her to marry him. But then they had survived the long night and he'd been drunk on relief, and days had filled with restoring the keep and nights with her warm presence and it hadn't felt so urgent. Then the slow dread had sank in that their victory meant that they would need to go south to face Cersei. And that if anybody could stop that from turning into a battle that would leave the earth scorched, it was him.Even if he was unlikely to survive it.

It had been selfish, staying with her, letting her believe there was a future. And perhaps he should have married her regardless just to give her legitimacy. But if he'd been sure of one thing it was that she would never have let him go alone unless he made her hate him.

Gods, it was a mess of his own making and the worst of it was that he had no idea what he should have done instead. He'd thought this path, despicable as it was, would do the most good for the most people, and events did seem to bear out that theory.

He'd thought he could take the hit. What were a few ugly, underhanded kills on his already besmirched honour? It hadn't been honourable to poison the Mountain enough that Jaime could slit his throat, nor to stab Euron in the back, but did that really matter as long as they were dead? What did it matter to become a kinslayer and a queenkiller of you were already a kingslayer and an oathbreaker? Jaime had thought he'd hardened his heart against Cersei, had thought that he could kill her.

He'd been wrong. In the end he'd hesitated, had listened to her voice laying it all out so clearly. Had looked into her beautiful eyes and felt a lifetime of believing he'd always, _always_ be on her side reassert itself. They were meant to be together. Two halves of a whole.

Then she'd bragged about the Sept of Baelor. About the wildfire.

 _I refuse to be half of that whole_ , his mind had rebelled. _There is nothing that could make that right._

Jaime had remembered in that moment that he had broken Brienne's heart, and his own with it, to be there, and that the sacrifice should at least be worth something. Had remembered that he was the slayer of the Mad King, and had come to be the slayer of the Mad Queen, because he was the only one who could be, because he was the only one who would be.

He'd intended to take his own life afterward, but he'd been too busy puking his guts out. At least Cersei hadn't been pregnant; she'd sneered that it had been a ruse.

Danaerys had swept into the city without resistance and on his recovery bed Jaime had, very privately, been thanked for his services. He'd had to swear to forgo passing on his name; should he ever have children, they could not carry the Lannister name, and the dynasty Tywin had so desired would die with Jaime and Tyrion. Then once he'd recovered from a couple of broken ribs and a head injury, he'd been given a modest purse and a horse. Then, by way of strong suggestion, a list of people he could seek out in Essos and who would help him settle there as a favour to Queen Daenerys.

What other route had there been open to him? He'd hugged his brother goodbye and set out, aimless at first. Wandering the Kingswood for weeks, preferring to sleep in gullies over using inns, which would have required him to speak to people. With cloth wrapped around the hilt of his sword and never speaking speaking his own name he was just another wanderer. He'd kept clear of Storm's End, though that is where he could have taken ship to Essos, and eventually come to a tiny coastal port where small fishing boats came in to sell what they caught in the Strait of Tarth.

Perhaps he'd meant to go there all along, but just hadn't dared think of it. So he'd spent his last money on passage to Tarth. Jaime knew he had no right to ask Brienne or Ser Selwyn for anything; he'd treated her poorly and he couldn't even in all honestly say that he wished he'd done differently.

All his options just seemed to keep leading to terrible endings one way or another, and he was so very weary.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning a servant woke him from a dead sleep - she apologised profusely, but he waved it away, because the sun was long up - and told him he'd been invited to take breakfast in the solar with Lady Brienne.

Jaime had come to Tarth to see her, had hoped to speak to her, but that didn't mean he felt _ready_. Evenfall wasn't a big castle, the solar wasn't that high, but his legs felt like lead the entire way up the steps.

He'd expected Ser Selwyn too, but it was only Brienne waiting for him, installed in a comfortable seat. There was a large, rough-haired hunting dog asleep half under her chair. She gestured for him to seat himself on a sofa at an angle to her, out of arm's' reach but not as distant as he'd expected. A servant brought them both trays of food, and neither of them spoke as they waited for the girl to finish and leave.

For his part, Jaime was trying to gauge her mood and think of what on earth he could possibly say to her. _Sorry I got a bastard on you, but it's probably better this way because my name is a curse? I said cruel things to you so I could go and kill my sister? Thank you for not booting me straight back off your island, now can you please allow me to stay here for the rest of my life?_

Jaime wasn't often stuck for words, and he'd never before been so around Brienne. It was a novel and decidedly uncomfortable experience.

"You should be aware," Brienne finally broke the silence, "that we are married."

His mouth fell open, and he discarded at least five nonsensical responses before he eventually settled on a faint "Was it… a nice ceremony?"

She glared at him, and he held up a defensive hand, scraping his wits together.

"I am not objecting, at all. I known I left you in a terrible position and I am glad to find you as well as you are." _Gods knew it could have been far, far worse_. "How did you pull this off?"

"Lady Sansa spoke to those in the room with us the night before the battle, and found them willing to swear that instead of a knighting, they witnessed a wedding."

Jaime felt his heart clench painfully, because that made _sense_ , it was very clever and he admired Sansa for the solution. At the same time, he'd knighted her because he knew it was important to her, something she'd strived for all her life and he'd been able to give it to her. He'd knighted her and a room full of warriors had looked on and applauded and she had glowed with it. The thought that his heartfelt deed had been undone—it was devastating in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"Does this mean you are not acknowledged a knight?" his throat felt dry, his voice sounding wrecked.

"Did you think that after you left, I cared to preserve a knighting when it came from you?" She flicked her hand in irritation, obviously not interested in his answer, and continued, "after I vouched for you before the Dragon Queen and the Warden and my Lady, and you betrayed my trust to go back to your sister?"

She might as well have gutpunched him. He wished she had, it would have been easier to breathe through.  

"I understand now that your leaving was not for the reasons you told me at the time," she said, voice softening a little. "But after you took me to lover with half of Winterfell as witness... the choice was this, or to return home with only my shame."

He nodded slowly. He'd forfeited his vote when he left.

"My father decided it was best to tell the people that my new husband went South with the army, and was reported to have died in a skirmish."

"Right," Jaime agreed, because what else could he say? "Should I not have come here?"

Had his coming here put her already precarious situation in danger?

"We will need to find a way to introduce you," she mused. "Since I missed the chance to act out a public reunion in the great hall."

Not that she sounded like she might otherwise have wished to have one.

Jaime nodded slowly. He searched her face, trying to read how she was, how she felt about his presence. But Brienne was as blank and stoic as he remembered from first meeting her, eyes on some distant goal, her duty carrying her forward in a straight line with no intention to let the present distract or deviate her.

"Is there a reason that you're here?" she finally asked, cool and distant. "I had not expected to see you again."

 _Nor wanted to_ , said her body language, and oh, it turned out he had not wanted that question answered after all.

 _In truth I had nowhere else left to go_ , he didn't say.

"I wanted to apologise," he began, and then, seeing her gather breath to speak, to interrupt, he barged on, "I know that might mean little to you, and that I treated you cruelly, and I will understand if my saying this does not change anything for you. But I wish for you to know that I did not mean what I said that day I left Winterfell; I knew I was the only one who had a chance to kill Cersei and that I had to go that day if I was to go at all. I was terrified that you would stop me, or worse, follow me, because you would have been killed. I wanted to prevent a terrible war and I believe that I did, but not a day goes by that I don't wish I had not needed to hurt you in order to do so."

She looked away.

When he'd thought of this moment during his travels, he'd imagined adding 'I did love you, I do love you.' And perhaps even 'I have since I saw you at Riverrun and I haven't ever stopped,' because that was truth, even though it had taken him much longer to realise it. But when she turned back to him she looked so briskly practical that the words died on his tongue.  

"I've no interest in playing happy family," she said, "but you may take a seat at the table, and keep a room here. For—" her face wavered minutely, and she shifted in her seat, "for as long as you wish."

He almost asked what she wanted, if she _wished_ him to stay, and thankfully held his tongue long enough to realise that it was hardly fair to ask her to express a preference on that when the last time she'd done so, he'd left her crying in a courtyard.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I do wish to stay, for as long as you'll allow. And perhaps—"

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, and he bit back his poorly worded hope for a reconciliation, and said instead, "And perhaps you have a task or a role here I could apply myself to? I would like to earn my keep."

Her expression softened a little, and he sighed inwardly with relief.

"I'll give it some thought," she said, getting to her feet. It wasn't as easy as he remembered her moving; the growing child was clearly affecting her balance. She looked a little annoyed at having to push herself up by the arms of the chair.

Jaime shot to his feet too, unsure if offering help would be appreciated or not.  

"Are you… well? Is the little one treating you kindly?"

He remembered that Cersei had always been fiercely uncomfortable for the latter half of her pregnancies, barely sleeping, her back aching and her ankles swollen, complaining bitterly about the indignity of it all.

Brienne's eyebrows rose, and she seemed entirely surprised that he should ask.

"Yes," she said after a long moment, hand drifting to settle on her rounded belly seemingly without her intent. And oh, how he yearned to be allowed to settle his hand over hers, to touch her and the child - their child! - like a husband and expectant father might. He wanted it so much that he could taste it, that the ghost of his right hand burned with it.

But he was a husband and expectant father in name only, and had lost all right to touch her.

"I am fine." Matter of fact, but not unkind.

"I'm relieved to hear it," he said, trying desperately to think of something, _anything_ he might offer that she would want to accept, but coming up empty. He found nothing, and the encounter was clearly at an end.

 

***

 

"Walk with me," Ser Selwyn said that night after the evening meal, as much command as it was invitation. Jaime nodded and followed, unsurprised when he was being lead into the gardens. They were beautifully laid out, if austere by mainland standards; the winds must howl around the castle in winter, and nothing not hardy would survive.

Much like Tarth's people, it seemed.

"I'm choosing to believe that you really did intent to wed her," the older man said, neutral tone belying his words. Apparently Brienne's tendency to get straight into the heart of the matter was also a family trait.

"And that Lady Sansa's polite fiction that you did so has merely saved us the public scene of watching you beg her to accept you."

His tone made it very clear what his answer should be. Not that it would not have been affirmative.

"I did intend that," Jaime said.

"I've long wondered at my daughter's association with you. I couldn't imagine why she'd want to keep company with a Lannister, let alone the Kingslayer."

Jaime had heard the whispers of 'Kingslayers Whore' about Brienne, an infuriating kind of insult to her and all the more galling because nothing he could say in her defence would have improved matters in the slightest. Gods, remembering that he really should have married her, even if he hadn't loved her, just to prove to her and all the world that he respected her. It was sheer luck and quick thinking that Lady Sansa had been able to patch the situation together enough to preserve her reputation.

And now he was here, having washed up on Tarth's shores at forty years old with his beard shot with grey and a hook instead of a hand, speaking to her father at long last.

"You are... not seeing me at my best," he said wryly.

"Truly?"

Jaime almost laughed because Ser Selwyn sounded exactly like Brienne frequently had during their long trek through Westeros, the same flatly understated skepticism that could on the surface pass for politeness. He remembered vividly how unimpressed she'd been with him.

He wanted to retort, to show her father that he was not so unworthy, but when _had_ he been at his best? Jaime suddenly realised that he was still thinking of his old self, ten, fifteen years ago. The golden lion of the Lannisters at the height of his prowess, pride and arrogance. Ser Jaime Lannister, victor of many tournaments, hero of many battles.

 _There are no men like me_ , he'd said.

It was a version of himself that had certainly not been viewed with any kind of admiration or approval by Brienne, and he doubted it would meet more approval from Ser Selwyn.

He suddenly realised that it had been him at _Cersei_ 's best. It was when she had loved and approved of him the most, and he'd craved that approval, had let it fuel him in battle, had let the promise of it sustain him through long campaigns. Both Brienne and her father measured a man's worth by very different standards.

"I think it may have been fighting at your daughter's back in Winterfell," he said after what felt like far too long a pause.

Ser Selwyn hummed in acknowledgement, thoughtful.

"And how would you rate your behaviour afterward?" he finally asked, in a tone of mild curiosity.

"Far from my best," he said, uncertain if Ser Selwyn was thinking of Jaime bedding his daughter or leaving her heartbroken, or both. "And I wish I had not broken both our hearts, but it seemed best at the time. Staying and watching while thousands were slain and millions starved in a war I knew I could have prevented, _that_ would have been my lowest."

And there it was. Any apology for his actions would have been a lie.

"A pragmatic man," Ser Selwyn said, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"Mm," Jaime allowed, glad that they were walking side by side, and that he did not need to meet the man's piercing blue gaze.

They'd come to the cliffs at the end of the castle gardens, and Jaime chanced a look down. They weren't as tall as the cliffs by Casterly Rock, but plenty tall enough to kill a man, if the Lord of the castle should get it in his head to push him down.

Jaime wasn't even sure if he would try to resist.

He shook his head to get rid of the thought and turned his face into the seawind. Gods, the sea was so blue here, the sky so endless.

"See the ship in port there?" Ser Selwyn pulled him from his thoughts. Evenfall was the largest town on the island, but still little more than a village by his eyes. The port was well protected from storms, and there were some coastal fishing boats and a larger brig riding on anchor in the bay. It looked miniature seen from up here. "It supplies the little fishing towns along our coastline. We've been having pirate troubles."

Jaime tilted his head, picturing the island on the map. With its craggy coastline and strategic position it must be an attractive shelter for pirates preying on the nearby shipping routes.

"I can see how a coastal supply ship would make an attractive prey for pirates looking to stay at sea as long as possible," he said. It was like a grain delivery practically to the pirates' gunwhale.  

Ser Selwyn nodded in what seemed like approval.

"Indeed. My daughter tells me you are looking for a way to serve Tarth."

Huh, that was not how he had phrased it, but perhaps he should have.

"You'll board the _Petrel_ before the morning tide and accompany the ship on its route. They can always use an extra fighter."

Oh.

He had hoped to stay at the castle, to stay near Brienne, but he only nodded. Being particular at what kind of work he was given did not seem like it would go over well.

"Do you get seasick?"

Jaime huffed an amused breath.

"I grew up in Casterly Rock. In my memories from childhood it does not seem like I spent any time ashore during the summer."

"Good," Ser Selwyn said, giving him a heavy clap on the shoulder. "I would be embarrassed if my daughter's chosen husband could not hold his own on a ship."

Jaime stayed there standing on the cliffs long after Ser Selwyn had walked off, mind strangely blank.

_My daughter's chosen husband._

The older man was harder to read than Brienne, or perhaps it was that Jaime hadn't spent hours upon hours looking at him, trying to decipher every micro expression. _My daughter's chosen husband_ could simply refer to how the outside world would see Jaime, even if it was in name only. How he would handle himself would reflect back on their Lord.

Or it could—perhaps—well.

Jaime would board the ship and make himself as useful as he knew how to. He'd learn about Tarth and behave in all respects as if he truly had married the heir of Tarth and would one day rule it by her side. Even if Brienne never welcomed him back into her heart, she nor her father would regret allowing him to stay.


	3. Chapter 3

Ser Jaime was not at breakfast the day after she'd spoken to him in her solar. Brienne tried not to show her dismay - had he left already? She didn't even know what to feel about seeing him again in front of her, she had hoped he'd at least stay until she figured it out. Had he really thought to just… come here and apologise, and fall into her bed?

"I sent him on the  _ Petrel _ ," her father said in a low voice, seeing her surreptitious glance when more people entered the hall. 

"You sent him away?"

"He did request a task, did he not?" her father said with a quirk of his eyebrows. "I thought we might start there to see how he fares. And it seemed to me like you could use a couple of days."

That was very true. 

 

Brienne really had thought that they would marry. That allowing herself to accept him into her bed was permissible in the emotional turmoil after the battle, because he was a good man, and would never dishonour her. That the very fact that he was there in her bed then, after all that time, meant that he had cut the last ties with his sister and as soon as the dead were buried and Winterfell could muster a modest celebration, they would make it official. He'd loathed that slur people whispered of her, the  _ Kingslayer's Whore _ , and she could not have believed that he would make it a truth. He wasn't that heartless.

And then he had left. 

She'd allowed herself one day of tears. A single day to stay in her room and cry for the dream that he really might want her, might love her. One day to grieve the family she'd given up on having before, a dream of a loving husband and children, and now had to give up on having all over again. She'd almost believed… and it had fallen apart, like she should have known it would. 

And on the second day she'd ruthlessly dismissed any hope that he might come back for her. She'd gotten up and requested a different room so she didn't have to keep picturing him in her space. Then she'd put on her armour and given Pod the most savage sparring of his life, driving him on and on until he'd finally given up on trying to say comforting things. 

When Tyrion had come to her later with an apologetic expression, she'd cut him off before he could begin. 

"I fought Pod until he stopped speaking of it," she'd said with a hand on her sword hilt. "Will that work on you?"

"All too well, I'm afraid. I wouldn't last five seconds."

"I've done too much crying over him already," she told him. "I refuse to start again."

Tyrion had just nodded and patted her shoulder and left. Later, in a room with him and Lady Sansa, Brienne had learned that Tyrion was offering to marry her. 

"Since I am the Lannister's backup husband," he'd said with wry humour. 

Brienne knew that Lady Sansa valued Tyrion's presence and even if she  _ had  _ thought that marrying him had been the best option, she wouldn't have wanted to deprive her Lady of his company. So she had thanked him for his kindness, and accepted Lady Sansa's offer to consider her knighting a wedding instead. At the time it had not seemed like a great loss. What did it matter if Jaime Lannister thought her worthy of the title  _ knight _ ? The esteem of a man who had betrayed her held very little value; she'd never have heard the title spoken again without the pain of knowing who its giver had been.

The army had needed rest and by the time they began to prepare for going South, it had dawned on Brienne that she might be with child. Lady Sansa had gently counselled her to go home to the island. What else was there to do? So she'd gone, and she'd coped with the rumours and the scorn because that was what she'd always done.  

When she'd thought about Ser Jaime Lannister at all, as her thoughts might land on him late at night, or when the baby kicked, she'd resolutely set her mind to anger. And on anger it had stayed, whenever news came from the mainland. She'd worked on it. She'd cultivated it. 

Anger was better than broken dreams and despair. 

 

And then he'd walked into the hall and stood across from her, with none of his brash shine. And he'd put himself into her hands, explained himself and asked only if she'd let him stay. Not forgiveness. Not a place in her life. 

She understood now, why he'd done it. She might even agree that it had been the right thing to do, or the least wrong. She might have felt different if the people of Tarth hadn't so readily accepted her claim to have been married, however briefly. For all he could have known her life had been ruined by a lot more than mere heartbreak.

She'd been so angry with Jaime for so long that the sudden absence of it left her teetering.

"Maybe I do need a few days," she agreed with her father. Maybe by the time he got back she'd have found enough peace to deal with his sad, tired demeanor and his earnest inquiries about her health without wanting to flinch or draw a blade in defense of her heart. 

***

Captain Corbray of the  _ Petrel  _ welcomed Jaime aboard with a knowing expression, and Jaime figured that Ser Selwyn would certainly be hearing about how he conducted himself aboard. Not that he needed the incentive. 

The work aboard was pleasantly straightforward, and the crew - aside from the captain - didn't seem to know or care who he was. He made himself as useful as he knew how to be, which was sometimes a struggle because he couldn't haul ropes with only one hand and he wasn't yet comfortable enough using the hook to volunteer to climb the rigging. But once Corbray realised Jaime was an attentive helmsman the Captain warmed up to him, and whenever they came to the tiny coastal villages they were supplying Jaime hauled sacks of grain with the rest of the crew. 

Figuring that if he was meant to be Brienne's husband, he should act like the future Lord of Tarth would, he talked to the people he met. Asked them about their villages, about what life was like there in isolation, what they saw of pirates, how often, if they were ever attacked. 

There were no attacks on the ship. Once time in his life, Jaime would have been disappointed not to get the opportunity to show his worth as a fighter, even though an attack was never without damage of some sort. Now he was just glad that the ship returned safe and sound, its resupply mission gone off without a hitch. 

The  _ Petrel  _ returned to Evenfall on the late tide of the fifth day, and Jaime was talked into joining the crew in the harbour tavern for a few drinks. He was ten years older and one hand poorer than the rest of the crew, save the Captain. They seemed to like him well enough though, having declared him 'not a complete cunt, despite the fancy manners'. 

As a boy Jaime had once begged his father to let him crew on one of the Lannister trade ships for a voyage. He'd been soundly forbidden, of course; Jaime Lannister was to be a knight, not a sailor, and needed to be training sword work and studying battle plans. Destined for a life of leading men and one day being the Lord of Casterly Rock, he could certainly not be seen to work as a mere crew member, nor waste the time when he was expected to reach knighthood before his sixteenth year. It was a strange thought that Ser Selwyn had unknowingly indulged that dream.

 

In the morning he had cause to regret drinking cup for cup with the  _ Petrel's  _ crew; he was no longer a man of twenty who could drink deep into the night and wake up unbothered the next morning. 

Mercifully breakfast in Evenfall hall was a calm affair, at least this morning. From what Jaime could tell, Brienne and her father often used the time to discuss the more mundane matters of island rule and divide tasks between them. On this quiet morning, Ser Selwyn invited Jaime to take a place directly opposite himself and Brienne. He settled his legs under the table with a caution for the rough-haired hound that liked to stay glued to the older man's feet.

"How was the voyage?" 

Brienne listening to his report without comment, while Ser Selwyn lightly prompted Jaime in this direction or that, asking him about the villages he had seen and the situation regarding pirates. 

It was a bewildering experience to report to Ser Selwyn after a lifetime of being interrogated by Tywin Lannister. Jaime's father had always been very clear that there were right answers and wrong answers, and you were expected to report what he wanted to hear in the way he most wanted to hear it. Ser Selwyn seemed content to hear Jaime's report in whatever order the details came to mind, and nodded approvingly when hearing that Jaime had taken a close look at the village defenses. Jaime's assumption that he had been sent as more than a backup sword had apparently been correct. 

It was not entirely a surprise when by the end of breakfast, he was invited to make a project out of the island's defense from pirates. 

"Decide which information you will need and Brienne will arrange access to it," Ser Selwyn said. "Then present us with a plan."  

When he'd first met Brienne, when she'd been his captor, Jaime had been infuriated with this tall, mannish girl who'd seemed so out of her depth and yet met every obstacle in her path, every choice, with a self possession rivalling that of Tywin Lannister himself. He'd tried to shake her confidence, but she would forge ahead, as if she had her eye on some distant goal and all that was needed was to simply put one foot in front of the other, like she was some kind of damn children's story knight with a glowing destiny that called her forward. For somebody who had struggled all his life to find a course between loyalty, following his family's orders and wishes, and honour… for somebody who had been scorned for what seemed like every choice he'd ever made, it was  _ outrageous _ . What right did this inexperienced wench have to such confidence? 

Conversing with Ser Selwyn, Jaime was beginning to understand how Brienne had come to be that way, how she had learned to trust in her chosen course of action while maintaining honour and loyalty. He had a flash of intense jealousy before realising that the child, their child, wouldn't get Tywin. Their child would be growing up with  _ this _ . With Brienne for a mother and Ser Selwyn for a grandfather and with Jaime, swearing solemnly in this moment that he would do his seven-damned best to never be to his child as Tywin had been to him. 

He wasn't yet sure if she would allow him to be a father to the child, at least in as a close way as he wanted to be a father. It was too early to tell, he supposed. 

This conversation with the Lord of Tarth was all very different from being given orders by Tywin. Daunting, but appealing too. He was being given an opportunity to protect Tarth, to make a difference to the island, and after months of gloomy idleness, it felt like the first light of dawn. 

"Thank you, Ser. I will make a list of the things I need to know to make a plan."

Apparently Brienne's current project was updating the stock books while Ser Selwyn would ride out today to settle a dispute in a nearby village. The man took his leave of them with a hand on Brienne's shoulder and a fond "Don't stay cooped up inside all day."

Jaime raised his eyebrows at her once Ser Selwyn had walked away. Of all the things he imagined Brienne would be warned for, staying inside too much would not have come to mind.  

"I am not supposed to spar, or ride," she said with a selfconscious huff. "And walking around the gardens is quite boring."

"If it would help make it more stimulating I would gladly let you tie a rope around my wrists and lead me around," he offered, delighted when she snort-laughed inelegantly into a hastily raised napkin. There'd been a time where he'd constantly spouted crude and outrageous things to her, always hoping to rattle that unshakeable storybook-knight confidence and virtue. It had rarely earned him more than eyerolls and aggravated huffing, or at most a yank on the rope. He regretted that he hadn't realised sooner - much sooner - that it was far more enjoyable to make her laugh against her will. 

She coughed and wheezed, and he handed her a cup of water, waiting until she had caught her breath. 

She finally looked up at him, her eyes still watering. He gave her a beatific 'who, me?' expression over the rim of his mug. He had learned in Winterfell that sometimes they really did affect her. 

"Perhaps another time, thank you," she said blandly, and she had timed it just right to make him choke on his tea, the evil wench. Their eyes met, she grinning in triumph, he still coughing, and for a moment it was just like Winterfell after the battle, when their unexpected survival had turned into a rush of relief and affection. Jokes had turned into gentle, mutual chuckles, and he'd confessed one night, his face pressed against the nape of her neck, that being led around Westeros by her, even if it had been like a dairy cow on a rope, had been the best thing that could have happened to him. 

It had been his last night with her. The memory of what had happened that morning returned to them both at the same time, and Brienne looked away, fussing with her tea. Then she pressed her lips together and rose to her feet. 

"I'll have somebody show you to the library," she said, face already averted, and walked away. A moment later the last dog emerged from under the table to follow her, leaving him all alone. 


	4. Chapter 4

Brienne had been determined that his five days at sea should be enough, that she would not avoid him after his return. That she would swallow her pain and allow him back into her life, even if only for the baby.

Five days had not been enough, not even close. Not when he was being  _ charming _ , when a quip and a quirk of his eyebrow could bring her right back to those days in Winterfell. Six days and seven nights when she had dared to believe that a man might love her. When she had dared to believe that  _ this  _ man might love her. 

She dashed away angry tears as she made her way up to her solar, her free hand on her belly. It had always seemed like a strange gesture to her, the way pregnant women did not seem able to stop touching their stomach. As if they wished to draw attention to it. Now she knew that it was a subconsciously protective touch, as if cupping her hand around the swell of her stomach might shield the baby within from the ugliness without. 

If only. 

She withdraw to the solar and threw herself into her tasks, succeeding in not thinking about the situation for several hours. After she'd taken lunch by the large windows instead of going down to the hall, a servant announced that Ser Jaime had requested an audience. 

Had he come to invite her for that walk in the gardens? It was suddenly hard to speak. Unbidden and unexpected, tears surged to her eyes again, and she sat very still, trying to contain them while the servant waited for her instructions. 

"Please take him to the Master of Records," she said, her voice less steady than she wanted. "Tell Master Tyde to give Ser Jaime what information or assistance he needs."

_ Coward _ , she told herself once the servant had left. Was this really her plan, hiding away from the father of her child? But she refused to let him see her cry, and she'd already learned that pregnancy could do unexpected things with her emotions and her control of them. The Maester said that while she seemed to be carrying more easily than most women, the pregnancy could still affect her just as much in other ways. 

Instead of the tray she'd ordered for her evening meal, her father came, still in his riding clothes and trailing three dusty hounds. She had long since dried her tears, but he took one look at her and drew her into an embrace, and she sniffled despite her best efforts.  

"Oh, my girl," he sighed. "Shall I send him back out to sea?"

She couldn't help but laugh through her tears at that immediate, laconic offer. 

"It would be no trouble," her father said with a shrug. "The  _ Shearwater  _ is leaving for Volantis on tomorrow's evening tide. He wouldn't be back until after the babe is born."

"I don't know that it's months that I need," Brienne sighed. "He's just—I keep remembering so vividly why I loved him."

Her father breathed deep and steady, rocking her lightly on her feet. The only man she had ever known who was large enough to make her feel small. 

"My chick," he said, the nickname from when she'd been seven and obsessed with raising an abandoned albatross chick. "I wish I had advice for you. I know how to mourn, but I can not counsel how to accept a man back into your heart after such a betrayal."

"It would be easier if he'd done it for selfish reasons, like I believed," Brienne sighed. "But he sacrificed himself, again, and gained nothing for it but pain, again."

"Yes. But he also sacrificed you," her father said. "And it is not selfish to be hurt by that."

Brienne dried her face on her sleeve, feeling self conscious for having cried on her father, but he only smiled at her, gentle behind his beard. 

"I'm guessing you have no wish to come to the hall tonight. I'll have some food sent up."

"Thank you, father."

***

 

Jaime hadn't been surprised when his mid-day visit to the solar had lead to a polite redirection. The Master of Records had indeed been helpful, but he'd felt it keenly that Brienne didn't wish to see him. Which was entirely fair, because he'd only now realised something that should have been incredibly obvious to him all along:

That while he had ridden south with the knowledge that he had kept the woman he loved safe by making sure she wouldn't follow, she hadn't  _ known _ . 

She hadn't  _ known  _ his reasoning or his motivation. She hadn't known he was leaving her to end Cersei. All she'd known was that he'd bedded her, then left her with her reputation ruined and the declaration that he was going back to his sister; actions that would have cast all his previous interactions with her in a different light. 

All his noble intentions and explanations for leaving didn't mean shit because they hadn't  _ existed  _ for her. He hadn't just hurt her by leaving, hadn't just cut off a future she had hoped might exist together, he'd betrayed her and made her believe he'd never cared in the first place. 

And she hadn't known different until he'd arrived on the island less than a week ago. He'd hoped that explaining and asking for forgiveness would inspire her to allow him back into her life, but no explanation or apology could erase seven months of believing him to be as callous and cruel as as the worst men she'd met in her life.

No wonder she'd been willing to let her knighthood be sacrificed to create the pretense of this marriage. He'd comforted himself while riding south with the thought that she would forget him and move on. That perhaps she would accept Tormund. That if nothing else, he had at least given her something she valued, and that he'd be remembered fondly for that. He'd thought he knighting her as the only real and lasting thing he'd ever done for her. 

Never during that time had he stopped to consider that if Ser Arthur Dayne had acted so unknightly to Jaime as Jaime had done to Brienne, his own title would have meant nothing to him. 

Perhaps it was good that he hadn't fully considered it from Brienne's point of view, because he would have turned around, and then he would never have been in King's Landing in time to prevent the burning of the city.

His conversation with Brienne this morning had apparently brought the pain freshly back to her mind. She wasn't at dinner either, and he worried. There was a special sort of torture to knowing that she was close, and in pain. But the thing he wished to comfort her from was in all likelihood his own presence, and going to her might well increase her distress, not ease it. 

He didn't see her at breakfast the next morning either. When a maid came to prepare a plate from the table, he addressed her politely, recognising her as one of Brienne's personal staff.

"Excuse me, will Lady Brienne not come down?"  

The woman gave Jaime an assessing look, and he wondered what the servants knew about this situation, what the talk was below stairs.   

"Milady felt unwell this morning, ser. She requested a plate be brought up."

His heart pounded in his throat. Brienne had a robust health; if she was unwell, he was immediately worried. 

"I will bring it to her," he asserted confidently, and she did not object, passing him the tray she'd prepared. He balanced it carefully on his right arm, steadying it with his hand. 

 

Jaime knew where her chambers were, because he'd been moved to the adjacent rooms in accordance with his quiet acknowledgement as The Returned Husband. There was even a connecting door between his and hers, though it had been firmly locked and he would certainly not touch that door until she opened it, if she ever would. 

He knocked on her door and heard her faint 'Enter'. Brienne didn't look up when he entered the rooms, only asked in a choked voice for the tray to be put on the table. She was in a chair by the hearth, a hand covering her eyes as if she didn't want the maid to see she'd been crying. 

Gods, if she was upset rather than ill in bed, was she—was something wrong with the baby?

Without stopping to think, Jaime went to her, sank to his knees and took her free hand.

"Is everything—are you—what is wrong, Brienne?" he stumbled, all in one breath. Had she lost the baby?

She seemed to only realise he was there now, and she startled badly, yanking her hand free, pressing her back against the chairback. 

"Please talk to me," he said, begged, looking up at her. Her eyes were red, her face stained with tears. Her hand drifted down, and he took it again, gently. "I know I have no right to ask—seven hells, I know I have no right to any of this. But please, talk to me. Is something wrong with the little one?" 

"N-no," she frowned, seemingly bewildered by the question. "I don't think so. W-why?"

"Your maid said you felt unwell and when I came in you were crying and I—" he looked down, eyes settling on the roundness of her belly. "I was afraid to lose you."

"Lose the baby, you mean."

"Lose  _ you _ ," he told her sternly. Sad as it would be, losing a pregnancy wouldn't hold a candle to losing her. "Before I could… could make things right with you."

She stared down at him as if he was speaking Dornish, so he took a deep breath and plowed on. Hells, he was already on his knees, there wouldn't be a better moment than this.

"Before I could ask you to marry me," he said, "Properly. I don't just want the people to think that, I want to  _ be  _ married to you, I don't want it to be a sham."

Oh gods, her  _ face _ . Confusion and disbelief and  _ fear  _ and he, he'd put that look there, caused that with his actions, and he almost wished Ser Selwyn  _ had  _ kicked him off that cliff edge. 

"I know it is not the right time to ask," he said softly. "I know it's too soon."

Her tearful face said that she wasn't sure if it would ever not be too soon. 

He swallowed painfully. "Should I leave?" 

It was perhaps the hardest and least selfish thing he'd ever said to her. Or to anyone, really. 

Her startled reaction was a little gratifying, until he realised he hadn't specified  _ what  _ he'd leave. Her room, the castle, the island?

"Can you just," her voice sounded painful and shaky, "just give me some space? This is very…" she took a couple of deep breaths, trying to contain feelings much too big to be contained by a mere human body, even hers. "Raw," she finished finally.  

"All right," he said, even though that was the last thing he wanted. But she hadn't asked that he leave the castle or the island. He could stay here and she thought that in the future she might feel better about his presence. Part of him couldn't help but take hope from that. "All right."

He swept his thumb over the back of her hand, resisting the impulse to kiss her hand or her forehead. Space. He needed to stop pushing.

He held back the groan as he rose to his feet, but it was a near thing. His knees weren't what they'd used to be. It was painful how little he had to show for the life he'd led, and this, here on Tarth, felt like his last chance to have more than a slow drawn out languishing in Essos until being killed by some street thug would be a mercy. Compared to that merely setting himself to his assigned project while giving Brienne space would be… not nothing. But doable. 

He moved the tray of food to the table by her chair so she wouldn't have to get up to eat, swallowed the teasing quip about how that simple courtesy flustered her, and made a slight bow before he saw himself out. 


	5. Chapter 5

The next few weeks were  _ torture _ . 

Brienne had always existed only as a binary in his life. She was either fully present and constantly interacting with him - dragging him across Westeros, working with him in Winterfell - or she'd been unreachably distant. Never had she been so close for so long while he could not interact with her beyond polite nods. The only thing that came to mind was the time she'd been in King's Landing and he'd had to be careful not to draw Cersei's attention to the big wench more than it was already drawn. 

Here in Evenfall Hall he saw her at mostly meals, sometimes even outside of that, in the library or the courtyard. He'd started drilling sword techniques again, trying to incorporate his hook as a weapon. At times Brienne would watch a while with something like a rueful smile, and he'd have to swallow his comments and observations and quips, have to remember that he wasn't supposed to try to make her smile or blush.

He thought about Cersei a lot, about how sometimes she'd go cold on him for weeks, usually when they'd quarrelled and she'd lost her desire for his company until he apologised. He was still working through the waves of feelings he had for his sister, grief and loathing and guilt and longing, sometimes following eachother so fast that it felt like an autumn storm battering against the cliffs of his mind. He slept excessively, more than he had done at any time in his life. 

 

One afternoon perhaps a fortnight after she had asked him to give her space, Ser Selwyn called them both to the solar. He waited until the servants had left, and then gave them both steady looks. 

"You should be aware that this marriage is surrounded by rumours about its legitimacy," he said calmly. "Most people here on Tarth are willing to believe you are wed even though the circumstances are…" he waggled a hand, "vague." 

Jaime glanced to Brienne, at his side but at arm's length. She had her arms around her belly, subconsciously protective. 

"I understand that you need some time to get reacquainted. And I have no wish to force you into each other's company."

"But?" Jaime said.

"But, Lady Sansa legitimised this.. union, by announcing it as the impassioned decision of two people on the eve of battle. The way you are currently handling this is not convincing anybody that you were wed of your free will. And lacking the explanation of an arrangement or alliance where you would understandably have needed time to get acquainted, the conclusion they might draw about your lack of affection is likely to be closer to the truth than we would like."

Brienne nodded slowly, and Jaime wondered what Ser Selwyn thought the truth really was.  

"The people of Tarth wish for stability in the House of Tarth, and that requires for you to be at least cordial with each other. Otherwise we will have rumours," he looked at Jaime, "that you will disappear as soon as the babe is born."

Jaime grimaced.

"I do not require you to become actors, but please, read a book by the same fireplace. Be seen to have a conversation about something other than island defence."

Ser Selwyn rose. 

"I will leave you to discuss matters."

When he was gone, the silence seemed deafening. 

"So, reading by the fire tonight?" Jaime tried to sound light. He wish they could have done this at her pace. 

"Yes… I supposed," Brienne said in a dull tone. She still had her arms protectively around her belly. 

"I promise to focus on my book."

"I know my father wants us to reconcile," she said with a sigh. She sounded so desolate, hopeless.

He sat beside her on the sofa, aching to provide some sort of comfort. He didn't really understand - she was hurt because she loved him and thought that he didn't, but he was right here, still loving her, eager to make it up to her. 

"Would that be so bad?"

She looked away, took a few deep breaths. Steeling herself. She looked as if she was going into battle. 

"I'm afraid."

That was not what he'd expected to hear, and before he could respond she went on, "I know what—I want to—I'm not sure if I can trust like that a second time."

"You can't trust me?" 

That wasn't what she'd said, but… he had no idea what his face was doing right now. 

"With my heart?" her expression broke. "I don't know. And I'm..." she silently searched for words for the space of a few agonising heartbeats, her eyes in her lap. "I'm not sure that you truly  _ want  _ me to trust you."

Jaime let his head tilt forward to rest in his own hand, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. 

"I'm afraid too," he confessed without looking up, only realising it now. Seven hells, he was  _ terrified  _ to be trusted with her heart. All their acquaintance he'd told her he was a terrible man, kept her expectations of him as low as he could. If he warned her, it wasn't his fault when he disappointed her, was it? 

He'd clung to Cersei because in a world that despised him for a man with shit for honour, his sister hadn't cared that he was the Kingslayer. Cersei didn't expect honour of him, only loyalty to her and their children, and he'd have willingly ripped out his heart and handed it to her because she was the only one who'd thought his loyalty was worth the having. 

As long as he didn't expect constancy in return, but he'd only learned that last year. 

He still didn't know why it had been so important to tell Brienne about the Mad King, back then in Harrenhall in his feverish state. Twenty years he'd borne the derision of the world and met it only with defiance. And then this wench, this stubborn, stoic, idealistic, infuriatingly honourable wench had dragged him around Westeros on the end of a rope like a diary cow and somehow it had become important to him that  _ she  _ of all people should know the truth about Aerys. That she should know  _ him _ . 

They were already married in name, but it didn't feel like enough. He wanted it to feel  _ real _ . He wanted the ceremony, even if there were no witnesses. He wanted to put his cloak over her shoulders, even though what with the name situation and him not actually having a Lannister cloak, that might require some adaptation. 

But asking her to marry him, asking her to be a family with him and the child in more than just name — and he still wasn't sure if he was allowed to say  _ 'our  _ child' — did not fit with keeping her expectations low. Quite the opposite. 

He wanted those things, he  _ wanted  _ to be a husband and a father, wanted it more than he could express. But what if despite wanting and trying, he just… fucked it up? Let her down? He didn't even really know what it  _ looked  _ like, a marriage of respect and affection and constancy. Had he ever known a father who was present in his children's lives as more than a distant looming authority figure? The closest example he could think of had been the Starks, and he hadn't exactly been looking for role models back then.  

He righted himself and looked up at Brienne, into the sadness in her eyes. He suddenly remembered vividly the way her eyes had shone when he'd knighted her, when she'd realised he meant every word. It was devastating to think that afterward, his actions hadn't only invalidated the knighthood, but she hadn't minded because she hadn't believed he'd even  _ meant  _ it. 

Gods, how hard could he fight, how long would he strive, to see her look at him like that again?

"I'm afraid to fail you," he said with a honesty torn out of his throat. "I've never done this. I don't know how to be married." He'd only ever known secrecy and shame and don't-let-them-see-us-together.

"Is it strange that I am comforted by knowing that?" she asked, with the slightest hint of a smile. He grasped at the lighter turn of conversation, only too eager to leave this subject behind. 

"Very strange," he nodded seriously. "But I treasure your strangeness, my Lady Ser, since it has allowed you to accept me into your life."

She wrinkled her nose at the title. 

"You are Ser to me, always will be," he said. "My Ser Lady?" he tried. "May I have your permission to pay court to you?" It came out less jesting and more tremulously hopeful than he'd intended. 

That seemed to throw her for a loop.

"I've—I've never been courted."

That wasn't news, but he still blinked at her for a moment, suddenly realising that, well, neither had he. Or indeed courted at all. He'd danced with the young ladies his father wished him to dance with, but never had the slightest interest in engaging them beyond that. In his circles, a marriage was negotiated by family. Courting to gain somebody's favour was not required. 

"Well, since I have never courted anyone, I thought we might explore the concept together. I've heard that it's supposed to be quite enjoyable." Or so he'd surmised from Cersei's talking about the romantic books she read when they were young and before she'd really started to think of her affections as combined weapon and currency in her war for power. "If the object of one's affections, one's partner in court, so to say, is agreeable."

Brienne huffed an amused breath.

"In truth I've only ever read about it in novels."

"Then you know more than I do," he grinned at her. "And I am sure that with our combined knowledge and ingenuity, we will do a decent job of it."

"Courting when to all intents and purposes we are already wed seems... backward," she said, with a glimmer of amusement.

"As if we've ever done anything in a conventional order," he said, answering her smile. 

Their gazes lingered, and the moment stretched. For one long breathless moment Jaime thought that she might—that he might— but then she nodded and looked away, and the tension broke. It was time to go. 

He pushed to his feet with a soft grunt, knees aching, not pleased to be demonstrating his age so obviously. But then Brienne got to her feet with as much effort. She accepted his helping hand and actually made use of the support a little, though she frowned irritably at needing it.

"I can't wait until I can take up sword training again," she said. "I've never had to abstain this long since I was ten years old."

"I shall step up my training so I can offer you a match, when you are ready," he promised. In truth he had only trained twice, since coming to Tarth. Nobody had been interested in sparring with him, and it had been hard to find the motivation to drill on his own. 

It was sobering; Jaime Lannister had been surrounded by knights and sword masters all his life, had never lacked for eager and worthy opponents to train with. He was all the more impressed with Brienne for getting as phenomenally good as she was if this was what it had been like for her all along. 

"Will I see you by the fire tonight?"

"You will," she said softly. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Things grew a little less strained after that. They read books in one another's company, took walks around the gardens sometimes. Conversation was still neutral, careful, but there no longer was that awful silence. 

Over the weeks her belly grew notably, and one morning she appeared to breakfast in a high-wasted gown and a look of supreme irritation. Jaime brought his cup to his mouth to hide his grin. She glared at him anyway, and at Ser Selwyn, though neither man had said anything. 

"Good morning, daughter," her father said in the kind of bland tones they both recognised as amusement. He poured her tea while Jaime pulled out her chair and helped her get seated. 

"Senna needs to alter a tunic to fit me," she said sullenly. "It should be done in a few hours."

Her hair, shoulder length now, had been braided back in two simple cords and to his eyes suddenly it looked very much like a pale golden coronet. The dress was simple, dove grey and cut to overlap in front, softening the lines of her shoulders, flattering the chest he couldn't help but notice looked more prominent these days. Something about the almost nightgown-like appearance of it and the swell of her belly beneath the fabric was unexpectedly stimulating, and he swallowed thickly. He'd tried very hard not to think of her like  _ that _ , this past month. 

It was clear that she felt uncomfortable, and Jaime sought for something to say that she couldn't interpret as insincere. 

"I know it is not your preference," he finally settled on, "But I think it becomes you, my Lady."

He concentrated on the food on his plate, but from the corner of his eyes he could see the tiniest quirk of a smile, just for a moment, before she refocused on the platters of food. He'd never really seen her eat somewhere there was both an abundance of food and no outside eyes to make her selfconscious, and he was impressed as always by the amount she piled on her plate now. Of course, she was using all that food to construct a very large baby inside of her body, so he supposed it only made sense. 

 

"I'm going to the beach today," she announced when her plate was nearly empty. "I don't imagine I will have time or energy in the next few weeks." 

Jaime nodded, unsure if a response was expected of him or if this was intended for her father. Brienne glanced at him, something shy in her eyes, and  _ oh _

"Will you walk with me?" 

It took him a few seconds to understand that she was asking him to come with her, and then another few to form a response. 

"It—would be my pleasure."

Ser Selwyn had turned away to speak to a servant in low tones, in a clear attempt to not make them feel observed. Jaime could tell Brienne noticed it too, but they both appreciated the lack of scrutiny. 

"In-in the late morning, then?" Brienne suggested. Presumably after her tunic would be finished; he doubted she'd want to go for a ramble in a gown. 

He thought about the timing of that. The sun wouldn't come around to Evenfall village until midday; the beach would be chilly before then. And high tide wouldn't be until seven of the evening, so they'd have plenty of time before the beach disappeared. He nodded. 

"I'm sure there is a tavern in the village that would be happy to—" he was about to make a joke about her impressive eating habits, but finished instead, "cater to us."

"Splendid," Ser Selwyn said. "And do not hesitate to send for the carriage if at the end of the day, the walk back up the hill does not appeal."

Jaime understood this was said for his benefit, for surely Brienne knew of the option. Just as he knew that she was stubborn and unlikely to make use of it unless forced by circumstance. 

  
  
Jaime asked the kitchens for some food and drink and carried it in a satchel together with a blanket. Brienne met him in the gardens, looking considerably happier in a knee-length tunic that had been cleverly altered to overlap in front much like the gown had. It was still more feminine than he was used to seeing on her, but she could wear breeches with it and she seemed comfortable. 

She lead him, and four of the large shaggy-haired castle dogs that liked to follow her around, to the end of the garden to where he knew the cliffs were. 

"How steep is this shortcut to the beach?" he tried not to sound alarmed. 

"It is not the one I took as a child, I promise," she said, throwing him an amused look. "I have no wish to try that one now. This is surmountable for both of us."

It was absurd; now she had truly sought his company for the first time in weeks, he wasn't sure how to speak to her. If his irreverent chatter of old was acceptable or if he was still expected to tread lightly. 

"Is the babe treating you well?" he settled on, following her down a path that wound down the cliff side. There was a deep drop right there, but the path itself was as slow and safe as she had promised. 

"Except when she kicks me awake early in the morning, I am as well as the Maester says I can expect."

"She?"

"I think of the babe as a girl, I am not sure why. I know you—"

She glanced back at him, and he knew he was smiling. 

"You would not mind?"

"Your— _ our _ child," he corrected, "will be a Tarth regardless of gender. Not only because Tarth will be inherited by your firstborn, but also because the Lannister name is…" he blew out an explosive breath and made a gesture as if to toss something into the depth next to the path. "And to have a daughter who took after you?"

She frowned, clearly skeptical, but his pleasure at the thought of a tall, blonde little girl running around in breeches must have been obvious on his face. 

The part he preferred not to say aloud was that the more their child would take after her, the less afraid he would be to one day look into its eyes and see Joffrey's cruel soul reflected there. 

He stepped closer and reached for her hand, feeling greatly daring. 

"I can not think of any circumstance that I would not love a child of your body."

"...our bodies," she said, moving a step closer, lifting his hand. 

Jaime grinned because his mind went to her bed in Winterfell. Brienne averted her eyes with just the hint of a blush, as if she'd suddenly remembered the creating of the child just like he had.  

"I deserve credit for not making a lewd joke at this moment."

She huffed and pulled free her hand, starting to walk again. Jaime followed, belatedly wishing he'd let the moment linger, that tremulous tenderness between them that they were both too headshy to face. She might even have meant to let him touch her belly.

He wasn't—wasn't  _ good _ , at tenderness, at sincerity. He'd spent too much time amidst his cynical family, and at court, where any kind of genuine feeling was considered rather embarrassing. 

She didn't speak for a while, but he couldn't have stayed silent if somebody had put a knife to his throat, his mind buzzing with the thought that this day, this walk, could be the reconciliation he'd been hoping for. Providing that he could manage not to fuck it up and ruin a delicate moment. 

He didn't want to tell her how much it reminded him of their journey to King's Landing—and wasn't it strange how his mind had turned that time into a positive memory?— walking with her silent and him trying to get her to speak to him. 

He told her how much he liked that Evenfall hall saw the sun setting in the sea instead of dipping behind the mountains, and how that reminded him of home, of Casterly. Since that seemed to spark her interest, he segued into tales about growing up in Casterly, the cliff paths he'd taken to escape his minders, the rock pools he'd gone crab fishing in. A mention of the tiny sailboat he'd been given for his 8th birthday, a dinghy roughly the size of a bathing tub, finally drew her to speaking. 

"I had something very similar as a child," she smiled. "There was a whole group of children who had them to learn to sail, and we'd bob about like little cygnets."

"Do you have anything adults might sail in?"

"Several, we keep a boathouse down by the quays." 

"Would you like to go for a sail one of these days?"

He couldn't quite see her expression, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders that he had her attention. Then she sagged slightly and turned to him. "That wouldn't be very—"

"Seemly?" he finished for her. "Is it unseemly for a man to take his wife sailing?"

Her expression said that he had a point and that she'd actually forgotten that there was no longer any need to consider propriety when it came to spending time with him, but she refused to give him quarter just yet. 

" _ Sensible _ . I'm not sure how well I could swim right now, if it were necessary," she said, a hand on her belly. 

"Perhaps we should try that first, then."

It had seemed the logical thing to say, but he could see her consider the idea of getting unclothed with him and no, they were some way off from that level of trust and intimacy.  

"Perhaps we should start with a walk," she finally said, turning back to the path. One of the young dogs came bounding up and pushed its head up under her hand, prancing happily by her side before taking off again down the path. 

The beach was only a dozen more steps down, and it looked inviting in the sun that was just coming around the cliffs. The tide was going out, leaving large shallow tidal pools in the sand.

Brienne sat down on a large rock to take a break and drink some water, and Jaime perched next to her, taking off his boots. After a moment of exasperated struggle she conceded that she'd welcome his help to take her ankleboots and socks off since she couldn't easily reach with her belly in the way. Jaime wisely said nothing because he couldn't roll up his breeches without her help, and maybe.. Maybe they both surprised themselves with that wordless help and acceptance.  

He groaned out loud when he stepped into a tidal pool and it was  _ warm _ . Not bath warm, but pleasant on his skin.

"Oh gods, I had forgotten what non-frigid water felt like."

Brienne laughed as she stepped in herself, the water lapping her calves.

"We're further south than King's Landing! It just doesn't usually feel like it because of the wind."

Two of the dogs came loping over to her and she made a forbidding noise before they got too close, lest they bowl her over. They obediently averted their path… to right past Jaime, who got splashed. Brienne averted her face to hide her grin, and Jaime was too glad to see her so relaxed to even be annoyed at the dogs. With the sun and the gentle breeze, he would dry soon enough. 

He'd tied their boots so he could carry them, and they slowly wandered along the beach in the direction of the town, talking and throwing sticks for the dogs and poking at interesting things the tide had brought in. Brienne struggled to bend down, so he indulged her by picking up whatever interesting stone or shell she spotted. 

"This is glazed crockery," he said in surprise, coming upright with a sea-smoothed shard of what must have once been a finely decorated plate.   

Her amused-embarrassed reaction made clear there was a story there.

"Come on, out with it," he cajoled. "Tell me all the silly childhood stories." 

"When I was.. Six, I think, or seven, I found some old pottery on the tideline, and it had been smoothed by the sea," she said smiling. "I was fascinated with it, and my father explained that it was a kind of magic, that if you threw pottery into the sea and waited long enough, sometimes the sea gave it back to you."

Jaime laughed, almost staggering with it. 

"Don't tell me, I can see it now. Little Brienne stealing the best plates—tell me you stole the  _ best  _ plates for this experiment."

"I did!" she was laughing too. "I got my hands on three of them and smuggled them out under my shirt and threw them off the cliff."

"To be fair, I feel like your father should have seen that coming."

It was a strange comfort to think that even a man who seemed so natural a father as Ser Selwyn had had moments like these. 

"That's what I have told him. He saves the pieces, I think he almost has a whole plate 'reassembled' now."

Of course, none of it would fit together anymore, as smoothed as the edges were.

Jaime had a vivid image of her in a couple of years, roaming the waterline with two young children, looking for pottery pieces to bring to their grandfather.

"That leaves enough pieces for our children to find."

If she objected to the notion that there might be more children after this one, she did not show it. Instead she smiled. 

"Perhaps we should help them a little. Make sure there's enough to find."

"Ser Brienne, Lady of Tarth, knight of the Seven Kingdoms, are you proposing that we throw some more plates off the cliff?" he said, trying for scandalised but hearing his own voice rise in delight. 

"Perhaps," she said with a conspiratorial look. She stepped closer, steadying herself on his arm, and dug around in the satchel he was carrying. 

She was very close, blonde hair right by his face, her body warm and solid and her belly brushing lightly against him. The water lapped gently around their ankles, and he was still holding the piece of magic plate. 

His thoughts went to little Brienne, a wilful little girl who had grown into this amazing woman by his side, the woman who had tilted his whole life when hasn't known it needed it. In this moment he felt connected to her in a way he'd never dreamed of before. He could see her as the mother she would be, the parents they would be together. He could see himself 'accidentally' letting this tale of sea magic slip to his own children, sacrificing a few plates to the hope that one day there would be grandchildren bringing him pieces of sea-smoothed pottery, and that they might in turn... 

"I can't wait to meet our child," he said softly, before he could do something so stupid as to kiss her before she was ready to be kissed. 

"Me neither," she smiled, fishing a cup out of the satchel with a noise of triumph. "I had no idea you wished to be a father. You always spoke of avoiding marriage at all cost."

"I will tell you about it in a moment," he promised, knowing it would not be a happy conversation. "What did you want to do with the cup?" It was glazed blue with the falling star motif of Evenfall. 

"We could—" she cut her gaze to the sea for a moment. "To make sure our children have something to find."

_ Gods  _ he wanted to kiss her. He had to look away from the brightness of her, focus on the cup. 

"Whole or broken? Whole might make it wash up quite soon."

By mutual agreement he smashed the cup onto a rock and then they walked to the surf. He couldn't throw all that well with his left hand, but he supposed it didn't matter that much. 

"To sea magic," Brienne said, throwing a few shards as the last remnant of a wave washed around their ankles.  

"To sea magic."

The backwash sucked the sand out from under their feet, and she accepted his arm to help steady her. He tried not to draw attention to it when she didn't let go as they began walking again. 


	7. Chapter 7

They were both silent for a while, strolling along the beach arm in arm like a wedded couple. Jaime tried to figure out how to tell her about Cersei and his children without bringing back too many bad memories. She needed to know—and even if she didn't, she had  _ asked _ — but he didn't want to ruin this tentative balance they seemed to have reached today. 

"I'm not sure where to begin," he confessed, no more organised in thought than before. 

"You were in the Kingsguard, so you could not marry. Against your father's wishes, I imagine," she said. 

"Yes. All right," he nodded, because that was a way in, a place to start. "My sister was always my closest friend and confidante, growing up. We were each other's whole world. She was to live at court in King's Landing while I stayed in Casterly and married and produced heirs." He took a deep breath. "Cersei convinced me to stay with her. She was lonely, we'd never been parted before, and I had no interest in being married off for our father's dynastic ambitions. Joining the Kingsguard let me stay close to her, and I couldn't wed, so my father couldn't force me away from her."

He glanced to Brienne's face, trying to gauge how she was taking in this information. It felt like exposing himself in a way that merely getting undressed would not have. 

"When the rebellion happened—" he took a deep breath and said the words, "when I killed Aerys—the whole world reacted much as you did. I was the kingslayer, the oathbreaker. My honour nonexistent, my word less than horseshit." 

"Except Cersei?" Brienne said softly.

"Except Cersei. My father wed her to Robert Baratheon. Did you or your father ever meet him? Vile man, a drunken brute. He was—he—" he cut himself off, because it felt like a betrayal to Cersei all over again to expose the depths of her vulnerability and misery. "She needed me," he said instead, hoping he'd said enough. "and I made a vow to her that I would not abandon her."

Brienne nodded with understanding. 

"If you broke  _ that  _ vow..."

"She was the only one who valued my word. I could bear to be called Oathbreaker as long as I stayed loyal to my sister."

The words couldn't quite convey how heavily he'd leaned on his sister for his sense of self. There had been nothing,  _ nothing  _ he could have denied her, and even now it was hard to pinpoint when that had changed. Only over the last couple of years. 

"She came to me for comfort when Robert had—exercised his rights. It seemed only natural at the time that we who had only ever known love from one another, that we—"

He didn't want to say more, but he knew she'd heard the rumours. It was hardly necessary to elaborate. 

"We were careful, but when Joffrey was born he had nothing of the Baratheon looks, and I—I begged Cersei to run away with me to Essos, to find some distant place where we could be safe and together, but she was ambitious, always had been. She said she'd endured too much not to see her child on the throne, so we had to make sure nobody would ever suspect that Joffrey wasn't Robert's get."

"Did you ever get to hold him?"

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the pain and frustration of having to stand by and watch while Robert Baratheon not only laid claim to his sister, but to his children. 

"Once, when he was in swaddling still and there were no witnesses. After that Cersei was always careful not to have us so much as in the same room more than the role of a disinterested uncle allowed. And I knew it was best; if somebody had found out the truth, the children would have been killed."

Her face gentled with sympathy, and he rounded on her.

"Don't pity me, I couldn't bear it if you pitied me," he told her, voice harsh with desperation. "I made my choices freely and kept to them for twenty years, and I have to live with them. I was not a good man—"

Brienne flinched at the echo of what he'd told her when leaving Winterfell.

"—and I don't know if I am now. In the end I broke even that vow."

"You stopped her from killing half the city, did you not?"

"Even so."

They started walking again, and Jaime was glad of it. It was easier to have this conversation without those blue eyes boring into him. 

He knew it wasn't fair of him to ask her for absolution, to bait her into telling him she did consider him honourable. If he'd ever had that right, he'd voided it in Winterfell. 

It still ached when she did not say anything of the sort, did not contradict him.

"I think you spoke as much truth during the very first time I saw you, as during the whole month after."

Jaime thought back to the insults he'd flung, back in that filthy cage, and tried not to grimace. Brienne shook her head, obviously seeing where his mind was going. 

"I mean what you said about oaths," she clarified. "How you'd been asked to swear so many and how they contradicted. I'm not sure anybody could have navigated their way through with their honour intact. Or their sanity. A vow that requires you to dishonour yourself is one that should never have been asked of you."

He'd been trying to rile up Catelyn Stark, because after a year of sitting chained in the mud he'd been desperate enough to think that she might kill him herself if he hit the right note. He hadn't at the time thought of it as baring his underbelly, but thinking back on it, it had been more truth than he would ever have purposefully spoken.

No vows were left on him now, apart from the one he'd taken when becoming a knight: brave, just, defend the innocent, etcetera. And he supposed he vow of marriage, even though he never actually took that one. It suddenly felt like a loss. 

"I would…" he turned to face her, bringing up their clasped hands between them. "--when I came to Winterfell, I wanted to… to—" he began to sank through one knee, intending to swear his loyalty. She made a startled noise when she realised what he was doing, and tugged on his hand, pulling him back upright. 

There were tears in her eyes. "Jaime, I don't want your oath."

He wasn't sure if a killing blow by her sword would have hurt more.

"I can't let you, you'll—please do not make me your new Cersei."

He breathed in sharply, as if she'd punched him. Did she think he was looking for her to replace Cersei, Cersei who he'd struggled so hard to free himself from? How could she—

"I'm not...I don't—"

He had to turn away, face the open sea to drag big, painful breaths into his lungs. After all the agony of abandoning Cersei and choosing to follow Brienne's path instead, after his final betrayal of Cersei, he hadn't considered that Brienne might allow him into her life without wanting his loyalty, as if it held no value.

"Ser Jaime."

He couldn't help turn to her, like every time he was near her, these past years, as if she were the sun and he a tree needing her light on his leaves.

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

"Listen to me. I want you to be a father to this child, and you and I, I want—I hope that we—"

She took a deep breath, plowing on, "But from all you've said, you defined your life by what your sister needed you to be for her. You did not care about good or bad, only for what she asked. That's not a responsibility I am willing to bear. I have no wish for your service, or your fealty, or your unquestioning loyalty."

They walked in silence for a long time, Jaime trying to breathe through the ache of being rejected. Some of the old Lannister pride rose—how  _ dare  _ she?—but it had the voice of his father, which no longer had the ring of command it had once had.  

She glanced at him, and he had no idea what expression she read on his face, but she continued almost gently, "I wish for a partner. If you are a good man, you will be one with or without such an oath to bind you."

_ If _ . 

"You—you don't even wish for marriage vows?" he focused on the lesser devastating aspect of her words. 

"I guess I'm hoping we will, at some point—it would mean something to me, even if it was in private. But your loyalty as a husband is not the same as swearing to put your entire life in service of mine and asking me to be your moral compass."

Her hand floated in the air by her waist for a moment, and he took it, twining their fingers together. 

He understood that she wasn't going to say it, that he was a good man. That she wasn't going to give him absolution. He couldn't solve the wariness of her bruised heart with a vow, only with being here and doing the best he could, every day anew. 

They walked in silence for a while, holding hands. The town had come within sight now, and he could see some of the townspeople look at them with interest. It made him uneasy until he remembered that it was fine them to be seen together, it was a good thing. There was no need to be furtive about any of this.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a touch to his right arm, and looked down to find one of the dogs nudge him. It was the kind of clear demand for attention found in dogs who relied on absent-minded petting by whoever seemed to have an idle hand, and he couldn't help but smile. 

"Don't know how well that's going to work with the hook, big fellow," he said, but tried it anyway, angling the hook outward while he stroked the dog's head with his forearm. This seemed to meet with approval, and a few moments later some of the other dogs raced past and drew Jaime's new friend away into their game of tag. 

Brienne was smiling. 

"Perhaps I should have a padded cover for it," Jaime pondered, holding up the hook. It had a leather sleeve, as much for grip on whatever he touched with it as for covering the knife-sharp inner edge. "This won't do around the babe."

 

The beach was wider closer to town, wide enough that the tide hadn't wetted it all, and Brienne was breathing audibly when they passed through a section of dry sand.

"Would you like to take a break here?" He indicated a large rock that might serve as a seat. 

"There's a tavern there," she jerked her chin to where the quays began, so he helped her to cross the sand, feeling her weariness. They'd spent most of the afternoon on the beach, and though they'd walked slowly and taken breaks, he wasn't surprised it was tiring for her. 

The tavern was right across from where they climbed up road, and they didn't bother stopping to put on boots. Brienne called the wet and sandy dogs and sternly commanded them to go home. The three rowdy ones obeyed, trotting off up the road toward the castle,  but the hound with the grey muzzle gave her a pleading look, and she softened. 

"Fine, you can stay."

Jaime tried not to sympathise with the animal too much. He remembered being the grey-haired creature that humbly asked if it could stay with her.

The tavern proprietress  was visibly surprised and pleased to see Brienne, and immediately lead them to a well-cushioned bench in the little courtyard, shielded from the sun by flowering vines. A servant brought over a footstool for Brienne as if that was always part of the service. 

She sank into the comfortable seat with a low groan and her eyes closed, so Jaime ordered food and drink, chatting pleasantly with the older woman about the type of catch one of the fisherboats had brought in that morning and how they'd like it prepared. He also asked her to send a runner, if she could find one, to the castle to request the coach be sent in an hour or two.

The woman left to speak to the cook, and Brienne made a soft grunting sound, head tilted back against the padded back support, eyes closed.

"Are you well?"

By way of answer she blindly reached for him, and when he correctly interpreted this and took her hand in his own, she tugged him closer to put his hand on her belly. Whatever clever remark Jaime might have wanted to make froze in his throat when he felt movement under his palm.

"Oh.  _ Oh _ ." He flattened his hand to curve his fingers around her belly, wishing he had a second hand to put next to it. He was anticipating it the next time he felt the babe stir, a distinct press up against his hand. Brienne made a soft sound.

"Is it painful?"

"It's not precisely comfortable," she conceded. "But it is good to feel her so vigorously."

Jaime nodded. Joffrey had required Cersei to be bedbound for the latter months of her pregnancy, and they'd worried right up to the birth that he might be stillborn after all. Then he'd been a sickly baby, quiet and slight and always a concern to Cersei. She'd been unable to deny him anything even after he'd begun to thrive, even when a bit of denial might have done him good. He'd never know if spoiling the boy a bit less might have made a difference to his character. 

 

A servant brought them cups and a pitcher of a refreshing cordial, and he poured for Brienne and handed it to her so she didn't have to sit up.

"Thank you," she said with a hint of displeasure at needing such basic help. "Until now I had not realised how much less capable I am now."

He couldn't quite interpret her expression, something sullen and… perhaps embarrassed? Then he realised she'd wielded a sword since she was ten years old, trained all her life to get away from the sort of vulnerability most women were bound to as a matter of course. It didn't matter that something was unlikely to befall her on Tarth, that she wouldn't be attacked; she wasn't used to knowing that if she was, she wasn't currently capable of defending herself. 

He imagined that it was something in the vicinity of how he'd felt after losing his hand; going from knowing himself a formidable fighter to having to rely on not being attacked had been  _ horrible _ . Truth be told, it often still was; he'd occasionally still wake up sweating with the feeling of trying to draw his sword with his non-existing hand. Getting the hook, and training with using it as a weapon, was finally slowly easing the feeling. 

He remembered how being told that he wouldn't be attacked or that others would protect him hadn't improved on the feeling at all, so he said nothing, only leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. 

It was easily done, without thought, and only on straightening up he wondered if he'd gone too far. But she stayed as she was, eyes closed and with the slightest hint of a smile, and relief soared in his chest.

 

As if they'd exhausted the heavy topics for the time being, they talked of inconsequential things during the dinner. It felt almost too easy, and a quiet, dark part of him couldn't stop wondering if this was a show they were putting on for the benefit of the villagers; the future Lord and Lady of Tarth, affectionate couple. 

Even if it were, he hoped it might grow to be so comfortable that it would no longer be an act. 

After the meal he helped her into the waiting coach, the dog hopping in after them, and she leaned against his shoulder as they rode up to the castle. He daren't move in case she would notice and stop doing it. 

"Gods, I should not be this tired," she murmured. "I could go straight to bed."

"Was it worth it though, to be at the beach?"

She made an affirming noise. 

"How much longer, says the Maester?"

"Mmm, it could come any moment now, apparently," she yawned. 

Jaime startled. From his calculation he knew she had to be almost to term, but she was nowhere near as big and miserable as he'd come to associate with the final weeks of pregnancy. 

"But you.. don't think so?"

"It could be weeks, still. I imagine that somehow I will… know, when the child is getting ready," she mused. "And it doesn't feel like that yet."

"Well, if that changes…"  _ Let me know _ , he wanted to say, but he wasn't sure if they were on an intimate enough basis now for her to want him anywhere near, when the time came. He would certainly not be allowed in the room during the event, but waiting outside while she delivered would be very different from only being told in hindsight. 

Not to mention if something went wrong… he tried to quell the thought of his mother, of being six and having a mother, and one day being put to bed by his nurse and then waking up the next day to a little bother and an angry, grieving father and the gaping absence of his mother. 

"I will send word," she nodded. "Or if it begins at night, I will throw a boot at the shared door."

There was a smile in her voice.

"Thank you. Speaking of boots…"

"I suppose I should wear them," she said, looking down at her bare feet. "At least until I am in a comfortable chair and can put my feet up again."

He helped her put them on, and if he wasn't fast or handy about it, she didn't complain. 


	8. Chapter 8

Two days later they walked in the gardens together, making their now accustomed way to the vine-covered pagode at the East side of the castle gardens. It was a pleasantly sheltered spot, the bench well-padded with cushions brought out for their use, and overlooking the gentle grassy waves of the Tarth land. Sheep were dotted here and there.

"Have you settled on a name for the child?" he asked when they sat down. 

Her eyebrows rose. 

"You don't wish to have a say?"

_Caught out, damn it._

"I—I wasn't sure if you…"

If he had a place in her life where his say was wanted. 

"I told you on the beach that I want you to be a father to our child and a husband to me. You are the future Lord of Tarth. You are—" she glanced at his face, her eyes a little shinier than usual, "you are  _ home _ ."

Jaime suddenly had to swallow down some—some lump that was stuck in his throat. Thankfully Brienne wasn't done talking. 

"And it is frankly disconcerting to have you tiptoe around me as if I'm a dragon that hasn't yet decided on its meal. That is not the Ser Jaime Lannister I got to—got to know."

"How do you know I'm not tiptoeing because you're pregnant?" he asked jauntily, after what he knew was too long a pause to be casual. "Pregnant women do have some commonalities with dragons."

She huffed in exasperation, and it was perhaps the most normal interaction they'd had since that ruinous day in Winterfell.

"My mother's name was Jaeneth," she finally said. "Though father has asked me not to—he thinks it would be too painful to say every day."

"My mother was Joanna," he said. It was still strange to say it aloud. "My father forbade anybody from speaking her name after she—" he couldn't say it, that his mother had died in childbirth. He knew Brienne already knew, but the thought of it when Brienne was so close to giving birth herself… he'd been trying not to dwell on it. 

"Joanna," Brienne repeated thoughtfully. "Joaney, when she's small?"

His mother had never been called that as far as he knew, but the name immediately summoned the image of a gangly blond girl, scrambling around in tide pools. 

"Yes. That would be—I like that, a lot." He swallowed thickly. 

"I also like Lyanna," she said, and they both remembered the fierce last heir of Mormont. "But…"

"Joanna Lyanna is a bit… much."

"We'll save that one, then," she nodded, and it took a moment of stunned silence for him to realise that she meant for a future child. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to cover for his surprise. "And for a boy?"

"My older brother was called Galladon."

He'd drowned when he was eight and she was four, he knew. Her two younger sisters had died in the cradle in the same winter her mother had died. Gods, how Ser Selwyn had managed to survive, Jaime wasn't sure. He hoped not to find out for himself. 

"Would your father not find that…?"

"I'm not sure. But I am light on ideas, I have no real…" 

He could almost  _ hear  _ her thoughts that she'd met precious few men in her life that she had positive enough memories of to consider their names for her child, unless he wanted to consider Renly. On the other hand, Ser Selwyn had to count for several men all by himself. 

"Selwyn the Younger? Selwyn Arthur?"

"After Arthur Dayne?" she smiled. 

He leaned in, brushing her shoulder with his, his face close to hers. 

"And my dreams of honourable knights that I had come to believe were mere dumb fairy tales until I met you."

Her mouth made a perfect O for a brief moment, and then she blushed. It took her a moment to regain her composure. 

"Having a grandson with his name will exasperate my father, but I prefer that over devastating him by having a young boy with my brother's name run around the castle, I think," she finally said. 

"Selwyn Arthur. I like it."

She hummed in agreement, and they sat in comfortable silence for a time, watching two sheepdogs collect a  flock of sheep in the distance. 

  
  


The next day she wore a dress, admitting with an irritated expression and the disgruntled explanation that her breeches had become too uncomfortable at the waist. During their walk she was more quiet than usual, not letting herself get drawn into whatever subject he was talking about. Something on her mind, clearly. Maybe if he held his tongue for a while, she'd come out with it. 

"Father wants to hold a Name Day ball to introduce the Heir," she finally said when they were sitting on the usual bench. There was a peculiarly blank tone to her voice, as if she hadn't figured out how to feel about it and was waiting to see if he'd give her a clue. 

"He mentioned," Jaime nodded. He'd been wondering how big of an affair it would be. Bigger than the island nobles only - Storm's End would come, invitations would be going to King's Landing. Perhaps even to Winterfell. 

Of course, balls and other formal occasions hadn't ever been positive for her. She'd been ridiculed and scorned and nobody had danced with her. And more than that, most of the boys and young men who had made her life hell when growing up were now the bannermen of Tarth, the lords who would be among the main invited.

He wondered if Ser Selwyn would be willing to share the guest list with him, and if he could not add some names of those who knew Brienne and respected her. Outnumber the petty little Tarth and Stormland nobles with war heroes who would gladly cut anybody whispering disrespect about the Lady of Tarth. 

Perhaps he could even send some letters and encourage them to come. He shelved his thoughts about who might be swayed thus and paid more attention to Brienne; she didn't look happy.

"We had better start practicing dances soon, because I intend to claim every dance with you," he said, smiling at her. 

"Oh, I—I am not a graceful dancer. Please don't…"

He'd never seen her so small, and he hated it, hated all the people—including his former self— who had brought that about. 

"Brienne, my absurd wench," he said very seriously. "You forget that I know your footwork. You are a  _ phenomenal  _ swordfighter. There is no  _ way  _ you are inelegant on the dancefloor." she still looked unconvinced, so he kissed her hand and sketched a bow. "Especially not with an enthusiastic partner who has eyes only for you." 

_ There  _ was her blush. 

Jaime had always enjoyed dancing; balls were tedious affairs full of political manoeuvring he had little patience for, but dancing! The way two well-attuned people could make their bodies work in perfect unison! When he'd first met Brienne he wouldn't have thought in a million years that he'd feel his heart beat faster at the thought of sweeping the dancefloor with her, but here they were. 

He understood that she didn't share his excitement at the prospect. After all, it wasn't likely that she had a single positive memory of balls in her youth. Or, considering Renly, more than one.  

"It won't be like back then. This will be your time to shine," he said, determined to find the sore spots and soothe them. She didn't look convinced, but he wanted to make her see that things were different now. 

For one thing she'd allowed her maid to bring in her mother, a lady with a clever eye for fabrics if ever Jaime had seen one. Together they had expanded her wardrobe beyond plainly severe tunics cut for men. The women had created a wrap-around style for Brienne that flattered her, the diagonal lines helping to turn mannish into statuesque, and Brienne had a dress and several tunics in the style now that she wore regularly. She even seemed more comfortable in the dresses than the first time he'd seen her in it. 

He had often wondered if she'd rejected the feminine so thoroughly because she had been told she would never succeed at it anyway. Easier to bear the scorn for looking unwomanlike if you didn't even pretend to try. That horrible Septa Roelle hadn't helped, he was sure. 

The fashion at court was for slight, dainty ladies who looked fragile as birds—How else would twits like Loras Tyrell have ever been able to feel manly?— and he could see how it had been impossible to live up to for Brienne. Now that she had grown into herself, he thought that she might bypass 'dainty' entirely and hit 'regal' instead. She would be presenting the long hoped-for heir of Tarth. With Senna and her mother's clever dressmaking, Brienne's new-found confidence, and Jaime fully intending to make her feel like the most desirable woman in the world, he hoped the ball could be the victory she deserved. 

He briefly fantasised about how she might set a fashion, even. She was the Lady of Tarth, and she was in favour at court. Not only were women of her stature not unusual on the island, he'd already seen some of the other ladies in Evenfall Hall emulate the tunics. The thought of a King's Landing full of young ladies trying to make themselves look taller and broader and like they might conceivably swing a sword was a delight.   

"The advantage of giving your own ball is that you can decide on the music and the dances, and I am happy to practice as much as you'd like." 

He'd been undoing the straps of his hook as he spoke, and he placed it on the bench as he rose to his feet. She looked at him in puzzlement, and then he bowed to her, deep and formal, and offered his hand. 

"Jaime—" she tried to sound censorous but didn't quite make it all the way, and a flush was coming to her cheeks. 

"Indulge me."

She pressed her lips together for a moment and couldn't quite meet his eyes, but she let him draw her to her feet.

He spent a long moment getting them positioned, his stump on her back, their hands clasped. Her belly was very present between them; when he drew her into the proper position, it pressed lightly against him.  It was the most physical proximity they'd been in yet, since Winterfell, and he felt acutely aware of it, of not being sure if she wanted to be that close, and of the fact that they were in public. Some reflex borne from two decades of secrecy made his stomach clench. There were servants nearby, a gardener working not far off. Anybody looking out of a window on this side of the castle might see them.

He reminded himself that they were supposed to be married, and that Ser Selwyn had encouraged them to show the people that they had no aversion to one another.  

"All right?" he asked, hoping she hadn't noticed his hesitation. 

"I am not that fragile, still," she huffed, apparently interpreting his question to be about the touching. As if he'd dared her. Jaimed grinned. All right then. 

It was the most basic of the partnered dances, and the first few steps she followed simply by dint of not knowing his plan. He frowned when realising that without his right hand on her back, guiding his partner was harder. The instinctive finger presses to steer her into a turn were impossible now. She didn't feel his outward turn coming and came inward instead, and they collided, then stepped apart.

He took her hand again before she could decide that this was a bad idea. 

"We can figure this out, let me see…" he shifted position so that his entire forearm was across her back, low on her shoulderblades. Now he could use his elbow and wrist to guide her. It brought them less face to face and closer to side to side, her belly almost like the third point in a triangle, and that made him smile as he started them off again.

"What?"

"We're dancing with the three of us," he couldn't help but grin. "Family dance."

Her face went delightfully soft at that, and he guided her through a couple of simple turns while she wasn't paying attention. He'd suspected that she'd be good at this. Really good fighters and dancers both had a kind of awareness of their body, an intuitive sense for themselves in relation to the body of their opponent - or partner, as the case might be. He kept her dancing, nothing complicated, but improvising and feeling her adapt with little effort. She only had one moment of stepping forward instead of back; pressing them together in a moment he was deliberately slow to engage from. 

"See? I was right, you  _ are  _ good at this," he murmured. "Providing we can agree on who leads."

She huffed. "You are choosing the easiest dances."

"I did not want to give you something more lively than you feel up for," he shrugged. They were still standing very close, her belly pressed against him, his arm still on her back. "We can save those for later."

"It does feel good to move," she conceded. "Though we probably shouldn't attempt any Dornish lifts."

Jaime tilted his head, considering it. A Dornish lift was a fast spin by the female dancer, who was then caught by her partner and lifted, using the momentum, for a complete turn before he set her down. It was the kind of move that usually involved some bruised backsides when first learned. 

"I can lift you easily enough, but I'd worry my grip would slip," he finally admitted, getting them moving again. That he could carry her weight without much difficulty had been a subject of contention in Winterfell, until he'd made his point by lifting her up to carry her to their rooms and toss her onto the bed. He knew it hadn't been her doubting him or his strength. She'd come to see herself as so un-feminine that the concept that a man could lift her just as well as the dainty ladies at court, and moreso that he might  _ want  _ to, did not seem to want to settle into her mind. But for this dance move, with all it's momentum, his stump really wasn't good enough to keep a secure grip on her waist.

"We will leave the lifts for—" he shrugged, "closer to the ball."  _ When you are not heavily pregnant and a fall could be ruinous for both you and the babe _ , he didn't say. He pushed against her hand and they both turned outward, all the way until they met again, but now with arms reversed. His left hand settled easily on her back, the warmth or it and the play of muscles more than he could feel with his forearm. He hadn't thought about how the lead arm would work before he initiated this switch, but she laid her hand against the stump of his wrist easily and continued without missing a beat.  

This conversation was one of the first they'd had about the near future, about anything beyond the birth; he'd been struggling to look past the looming event, as if speaking of life past childbirth might be tempting the gods somehow. He tried not to speak of his anxieties about it. She would be the one actually going through the event; it was hardly fair to expect her to soothe his fears.

Their dancing was at walking pace, sedate enough, but after a time she was beginning to breathe a little heavier with the exertion, and he lead them back down garden paths to their secluded little seat. Somebody had brought them an earthenware pitcher with cool water and fragrant herbs, and he thought momentarily about the picture they must have been making, slowly dancing along the garden paths. 

If they'd set out to obey Ser Selwyn's request for a show of unity they couldn't have done better, but Jaime had a bitter taste in his mouth with the idea that it could be thought a show. At least Brienne did not seem to think it had been; she looked flushed and happy, her hands on him without hesitation. 

At the end of a partnered dance there was a moment where a gentleman might request a kiss from his lady. Jaime had had no plan to do so until she turned quite naturally to face him, her eyes shining so bright and blue that he brought his hand to her cheek almost without consciously deciding to. She stilled, unsure. 

"May I—"

Her lips parted, but she made no move to pull away, and her gaze fell to his lips. Taking that for assent, he leant forward and brushed his lips against hers, so warm and full. He felt her breath against his face, still a little fast from their dancing, and savoured the touch, just this, just a warm press of lips. It felt like a promise. 

She gave the tiniest little sign when it ended, something he fancied might be regret, and then she turned away to sit down and pour cups of water. 


	9. Chapter 9

Jaime woke up with a jolt, the roar of a dragon still thundering in his ears. His heart was pounding out of his chest, and it took a couple of deep breaths to get it under control, to remember where he was. 

Tarth. His comfortable rooms in Evenfall Hall. It still seemed so unlikely that after everything, this was where he'd landed, and more than that, that this was where he could hope to stay. 

What had woken him? He lay very still for long moments, trying to figure out if there had been a noise or if it had been his dreams catapulting him out of sleep. Outside the sky was just barely beginning to lighten; it was well before the servant's bell. 

There was a rustle in the adjoining room, behind the door, and he sat upright with a start.  _ Brienne _ .  

He got out of bed and lightly knocked on the connecting door. He wasn't actually sure if it was still locked; not that he wouldn't have knocked even if it hadn't been. 

"Brienne?"

"Yes!" her voice sounded strained. "It's begun."

Jaime had never put on his breeches this fast in his  _ life _ . He went to ring the servants bell, then went to Brienne's door, opening it cautiously. 

"I called for a servant," he announced as he entered, not sure what he'd see. Her bed was in disarray, sheets and blankets thrown about as if she'd tossed and turned through the night. Clad in her nightshift, but her face suggested she was going into battle. 

"Good. Help me up," she said briskly, and he went to her side. "I'm fine until the.. The cramp hits," she explained. "Then I may need help. But I want to move."

Just then a servant came in, only to be immediately sent away to fetch the Maester, Senna and her mother - Mrs Smallwood, and to notify Ser Selwyn that his grandchild would be making its appearance today. 

Brienne tried to heave herself to her feet. 

"Let me put your shoes on first, or your feet will be like ice."

"I will not die of cold feet," she said irritably. 

"That may well be," he said, bringing her socks and the soft shoes she wore indoors and kneeling down where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. "But you may be on your feet for some time, and I want you to be comfortable, or as much as possible, not merely alive."

She went quiet, and he glanced up after putting on the first shoe. She was watching him, something he couldn't define in her expression, something soft and perhaps fond.  

When her shoes were on he helped her up and stayed by her side as she walked experimentally around the room, one hand on her belly. She seemed fine, as she had been these past few weeks, until suddenly she hissed through her teeth and grabbed for his arm. He braced himself and held her upright, her body heavy and warm against him. Jaime was acutely aware of their relative states of undress, she in her nightshift, he in a thin undershirt and breeches. 

Nobody, however, seemed to care in the least. The Maester and Senna came in, followed quickly by Mrs. Smallwood, who brought such a reassuringly maternal air to the room that Jaime and Brienne, both grown up motherless, breathed easier. 

The Maester had questions: when had the contractions started? How long did they last? How far apart? Had she thought to use the hourglass to time?

While Brienne answered this, Mrs. Smallwood took Jaime's arm and lead him to the door that lead to his own rooms. 

"Only while the Maester examines her," she assured him, feeling him reluctant. "It will be some time before the babe presents itself, and she will have need of your company until then." 

He glanced back at Brienne, who was sitting on the bed and looking at him with wide eyes.

"I'll come back," he promised, hoping it was true and that they wouldn't suddenly bar him entrance after all. "I'll be by your side as long as you want me there."

Then he was standing back in his own rooms, staring numbly at the door that had been so firmly shut in his mind until this moment. He shivered. Right,  _ clothes _ , that would be a good start. 

 

He got properly dressed, having a strange and uncharacteristic moment of hesitation over his clothes. The nicest shirt he had was one with Lannister lions embroidered around the collar. It felt like the occasion of meeting his child merited some formality, but he wasn't sure if people would take his wearing of the Lannister sigil as a kind of rejection of Tarth. In the end he shook himself and wore the shirt with a jerkin that had the Evenfall symbol stamped into the leather. It probably didn't matter — who would pay attention to him in these circumstances, let alone to what he was wearing? — but a part of him felt comforted with the idea of wearing the lions. 

There was a knock on the internal door, and he hastily closed the hook and loop fastenings on the jerkin. It was Mrs. Smallwood inviting him back in. 

Senna was helping Brienne into a robe. She looked.. He wasn't sure. Tense. 

"As long as the contractions do not come faster than this glass," the Maester was saying, holding up a small sand timer meant for a short period of time, "Walking is recommended, and you may go where you like, though I would recommend against stairs. If they begin to come faster, you will need to come here." 

The man looked at Jaime for confirmation that he'd heard, and he nodded. 

"And my Lady," the Maester then said to Brienne, gentle, "listen to your body. This is not sword training where the mind conquers the body. You have nothing to prove."

 

They ended up walking for hours; Brienne with Jaime by her side, and Senna close by with the sand timer and a flask of water. The corridor by their rooms was soon deemed too restrictive, and with the contractions as yet far apart, they ambled along gently sloping corridors to look out over the courtyard. 

Jaime mostly talked, especially when she halted to breathe through the painful waves. She'd told him it helped to have his voice to concentrate on, so he talked about whatever came to mind because it seemed to be the only thing he  _ could  _ do. 

Ser Selwyn joined them for a while every so often, bringing Brienne's favourite treats: tiny cakes made with caramelized honey to keep up her energy. He would join their little procession company for a circuit around the courtyard gallery, smiling at his daughter and not quite managing to hide the sadness behind it. 

Come noon she was tired and tried laying on the bed for a while, but it turned out to be even less comfortable, so they went back to walking, because Mrs. Smallwood said it likely helped speed things up. 

"It walking helps the babe come faster, perhaps we should dance and hurry things along even more," he suggested, rubbing her back while she wheezed through a contraction. She let out an undignified chortling laugh, leaning on his arm, gasping for breath. 

"A few more hours of this waiting," she finally said, when the wave had passed, "and I'll be ready to try those Dornish lifts."

His surprised bark of laughter echoed across the courtyard, drawing more than a few eyes. Brienne smiled, pleased with her quip, and he couldn't help but take her in his arms. He almost leaned in to kiss her, impulsive, seeing in her eyes that it would not be unwelcome. Senna was standing close by though and others were no doubt watching them, so he rose on tiptoe to press a kiss to her sweaty forehead instead. 

 

When at last the contractions were coming at regular and ever-closing intervals, it was coming up to three bells in the afternoon. Senna sent for the Maester and her mother and Ser Selwyn, and they made their way to Brienne's rooms. They'd been on a smaller circuit of corridors for some time, staying close, and as he helped her toward the rooms he was painfully aware that at some point soon a door would close between them, and for better or worse whatever happened would happen without him. 

He helped her onto the bed, shoving pillows behind her, trying to ignore the bustling around them of various people entering the rooms. Jaime wiped his wife's damp forehead and pressed a long kiss to it, trying to tell her a thousand things he hadn't yet found words for all in that single touch. She gave him a weak smile and squeezed his hand. 

Her gaze went to somebody behind him, and Ser Selwyn was there. Jaime made space and watched her father bend down to kiss her temple and tell her  _ I'll see you both very soon  _ with a smile on his face.

For his part Jaime felt like he was sending her into battle on her own. It felt all wrong, to have this moment where they were saying goodbye to her when there was supposed to be joy. And yet everybody present was well aware that it  _ could  _ be goodbye. Jaime flinched when he heard the Maester say "All right, let's have a look how far you are," and then Senna was leading them both out the door and into the hallway. 

 

When the door had closed behind Jaime and Ser Selwyn they stood in the empty hallway exactly like men who knew the most important woman in their life was about to do something dangerous and there wasn't a damned thing they could do to keep her safe. 

"I, I'm going to—" Jaime shrugged, gesturing vaguely to his own door. "There are seats, at least, and it's just as close. You are welcome to wait with me there."

He felt stupid when he remembered that his rooms must have been Ser Selwyn's rooms, likely not even very long ago. But the older man just nodded and let him lead the way.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has become so slow. I don't have that much more to write, but the ending is seriously fighting me

They left the door to the hallway propped wide open so that it would be apparent where they had gone, should anybody come looking. 

Nobody came looking. 

 

The internal door allowed little noise to pass through, and they sat quietly in the chairs by the cold hearth for a time, each sunken in their own thoughts. For his part, Jaime was trying his best not to let his mouth run away with him in his nervous state. Ser Selwyn was easy to talk to; a man could confess to all sorts of things in a moment like this. 

As the sounds behind the door grew busier, he was surprised to find himself praying for her, to the Mother, the Stranger, whoever might listen. 

"I jumped into a bearpit once to rescue her," he blurted out. "Feels like I should be doing it now."

Ser Selwyn made an acknowledging noise, reaching for the smallbeer they had been brought.  

"She told me about that. Why did you do it? Did you even know, at the time?"

Jaime shook his head ruefully. 

"Do you know now?"

"She saw me… or I suppose, she saw  _ a _ me. A version of myself I had long given up on."

"But she had not."

"She expected honour of me," he chuckled. "It was not at all comfortable."

He remembered that time, when looking at her had hurt sometimes. He'd spent so much time embracing his oathbreaker self, defiantly throwing the rejection back into the faces of those who would judge him. Looking at her had meant seeing all the things he'd once dreamed of being reflecting back at him. The sheer strength of her righteousness, her strength and determination, was like fire in the hottest place of a forge, right where the bellows made it eye-searingly bright. 

Even when he'd closed his eyes, she'd still been there. He hadn't been able to stand the thought of all that fire, that storybook-knight brightness, snuffed out because he'd walked away and left her to Ramsay Bolton. 

He hadn't know he'd jump into the bearpit until the moment he did it, but he'd do it again. In fact, listening to the noises of the birthing room behind the door, he wished he could. 

"She expected honour already before you rescued her?"

He'd been expecting this line of questioning since he arrived on the island, perhaps even hoped for it, but this was not the moment he'd hoped to face it. He never had been the smartest Lannister, and distracted by the increasing grunts and yells of his wife giving birth to their child in the next room was certainly not when he'd have his wits sufficiently about him. 

"I suppose for most people that doesn't make sense, how somebody as noble as her came to accept a man with shit for honour," he said wryly, all the while thinking  _ ask it, please ask it _ . "But once she learned the reason I killed Aerys, she must have…" he made a vague gesture.  _ Accepted it. Accepted me. As I want you to do, also. Please ask the question. _

Ser Selwyn let out a long breath.

"I know what Aerys was, son, and I won't argue that he got the ending he deserved. I'm not sure bringing him to justice would have really… meant something," he mused. "But with your father's army at the gates your timing looked…" 

He glanced at Jaime, who felt like he was frozen in place, waiting for a judgement, a dismissal.

"Will you tell me the reason?"

Jaime hadn't realised he was holding his breath. The sheer relief of being  _ asked _ , of getting the space to explain his actions, made him stop to take a few deep breaths. 

"What's the first oaths you swore in your life, Ser?"

"Knighthood," the older man said, reciting easily,  _ “In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the mother, I charge you to defend the innocent." _

__ "Yes. Defend the innocent. And if you take more vows after that one, could you tell me which ones are supposed to take precedence?"

"Well, they are… not meant to contradict." He sounded… thoughtful, as if he could already see the shape of it, and Jaime took a deep breath, overcome with the desire for this man to understand, to know who he was, to  _ see  _ him. 

"Wildfire," he blurted, and seven hells, he had thought he could bring this as a somewhat coherent tale now. "He had caches under the whole keep. Under half the city.  _ Burn them all _ , he kept saying.  _ Burn them all _ . I killed the Master of Fire before he could leave the throne room and spread the order. But the king kept saying—he would have—all those  _ people _ —"

Jaime took a too-quick gulp of his smallbeer and ended up sputtering and gasping for a moment, breath almost halting again when Ser Selwyn reached out and gave him a friendly thump between the shoulderblades, more gentle than Jaime would have expected. 

"He would have blown up half the city," the man said in a low tone, understanding. "So you killed him. And then?"

"Then Ned Stark came in and decided I was the vilest kind of oathbreaker he'd ever laid eyes on, nevermind that he was committing treason himself."

"He didn't ask why you'd done it? Hmm, I suppose your father's army at the gates might have been an easy assumption. Eddard always was quick to judge."

Jaime took another swig of the smallbeer to cover up his bewilderment at this reaction. Could it be that Ser Selwyn just…  _ believed _ him? Even agreed that Stark should have asked him why?

He'd always thought Brienne to be singular in her willingness to listen and believe his account, and then only because they had been through hell together and dragged one another out alive at the other end. 

"I was already glad to have you here," the older man said, jolting Jaime from his thoughts, "because I trust Brienne's judgement more than anything, and she is glad that you are here."

Until recently Jaime might have disputed that, but the last few weeks with Brienne had been wonderful, filled with a kind of quiet hope and growing trust. It no longer felt like the question was  _ if  _ they would reconcile, but simple when; they were rebuilding something. 

Oh gods, and by the end of the day, they would have a child. Which she was birthing. Right now. In the other room.

"—but I'm grateful that you have told me this," Ser Selwyn said. "It is good to… have understanding of what happened."

Jaime nodded and said nothing. There was a commotion in the hallway, and he got up to have a look, grateful for the distraction. But it was only a servant with a kettle of boiled water and a stack of cloth. In the distance the  bells rang five times.

 

Some indeterminable time later he broke the silence. 

"How did you… when she was younger, how did you let her go?" He wanted to ask  _ how could you let her go _ , but thought it might sound more accusatory than he wanted. He tried to imagine having a daughter and letting her go out into the world on her own, this harsh world that reserved its harshest fates for women. Seven hells. 

"She had tried for years to make me happy," Ser Selwyn said in a low tone. "Accepted three engagements, trying to be the heir I wanted. Three men I encouraged her to accept even though I knew she would have been disrespected and unhappy. When she said 'no more' I realised that I had tried to fit her into a shape she did not fit, that despite of my love for her, I had made her think that she ought to cut herself down to fit into that shape." 

_ You will be who I need you to be! _ Jaime's father thundered in his ears. 

"I always hoped that she would find what she was looking for, out in the world," Ser Selwyn continued. "That she could make her own shape. Find respect and acknowledgement for who she is, not for what she isn't. I've been so lucky to get to see that come to pass."

"I don't—I'm not sure if I could—" Jaime halted, unsure what he'd been trying to say. "If my child—"

"I met Tywin Lannister, lad," Ser Selwyn said, in a low, kind tone that made Jaime look away. "Not the example of parenthood that might inspire a man, when he's about to become a father himself."

He couldn't answer, but it didn't seem necessary.

"You'll make your own mistakes, as I have. But I have no cause to think you'll repeat his."

Jaime realised that Ser Selwyn was a vigorous man in his early fifties; there was no reason to think he would not be around to see this child, his grandchild, grown to adulthood. It was more of a relief than Jaime would have willingly admitted. 

"Do you have any things you wish you'd done different?" 

That much too personal a question had come out before Jaime could stop himself; he'd never in a million years have asked it of his own father. In this moment, listening to the murmurs and occasional stifled grunts from beyond the door, perhaps it was something he could ask of Ser Selwyn. 

The older man chuckled ruefully. 

"Oh, many. Chief among them is that I entrusted too much of her upbringing to others, assuming that she would tell me if there were problems."

Jaime made an acknowledging sound. 

"When Brienne was eight, a fever seized the island. My wife, Brienne's mother, took ill, as did our young twin daughters. So did many others on the island, and it was harvest time; we are a small community, so you can perhaps imagine the problems."

Jaime nodded. While Tarth was not that far removed from the mainland, it was very rural, with the Lord of Tarth in the middle of the community. Every aspect of Tarth's communal wellbeing was of concern to the Evenstar. Jaime had never heard this much talk of sheep's ailments and fishing grounds in a castle before. 

"The weather had turned early that year, before we'd been able to finish the harvest. The twins passed away in autumn, and my wife a few months later. A lean winter and not much time for grief."

Ser Selwyn sighed, eyes unfocused. 

"In all that, I unintentionally taught her, or she learned, that her needs were an additional burden. And that she should not concern her father with, say, a Septa who treated her unkindly, or boys who bullied her."

Jaime nodded slowly. He could see that, how she'd wanted to be a good daughter and had ended up thinking that meant dealing with everything on her own. She still wasn't great at asking for help, or accepting it. 

"I wish it had not taken me so long to understand that her… her uniqueness was not a problem to be solved."

It was hard not to think of Tywin Lannister and the way he'd talked about them as children, the way he'd looked at Tyrion especially. They had all of them been tools to their father, but in Tyrion's case, a tool that was considered substandard and resented for it. 

Activity in the next room rose to what seemed like an urgent pitch, and Jaime leapt to his feet, pacing about the room. He couldn't decide if it would have been better to be further away, where he'd have been unable to hear Brienne labouring. He might not have needed to hear her, sounds as if she were in battle, the Maester talking urgently. But then again, with as useless as he felt, bearing witness to her struggle seemed like the least he  _ could  _ do. 

Then suddenly, an indeterminable amount of time later, there was a hush behind the door, and then a cry, weak and reedy but then growing in strength as a newborn child found its voice. 

Jaime was already reaching for the door when Ser Selwyn halted him with a gentle hand on his arm. 

"It isn't finished yet, there's the afterbirth, and they'll want to clean up first. Give it some time."

He sounded calm, but the tension in his face betrayed that he too was anxious to know if Brienne was well. 

Jaime, feeling like his skin was too small for him, strode out into the hallway to pace there, willing somebody to come out with news at least, if not to let him in. After a small eternity we was rewarded with Senna's face revealed by a crack of the door. Behind her, the small part of the room he could see, all seemed calm.

"Is she all right?" were the first words out of his mouth, before she had the chance to speak. 

"Yes, Ser, the lady is well," she said, in a tone of understanding. "I have rang for somebody - when they arrive, could you please have them send for the wetnurse?"

"Right, yes. Of course."

"Thank you, Ser," she smiled. Then, a little more hesitant: "You have a daughter, Ser."

It barely registered. "When can I see them?"

"A few more moments, Ser. She will be washed and ready soon."

"Thank you."

Senna disappeared inside again, and Jaime stumbled back a few paces, until his shoulders hit the opposite wall. The sheer relief of it, of knowing Brienne was fine, rose to his head as if he'd just gulped down a full cup of wine. 

"A girl," Ser Selwyn said. Jaime hadn't even noticed him coming into the hallway. "Are you happy?"

It dawned on Jaime only now how unceremoniously he'd been told, here in the hallway moments before the door had been shut again. He'd always vaguely pictured being handed the child when being told if it were a son or daughter. Was this to shield Brienne from any potential disappointment her husband might have that she hadn't given him a son? Was it the normal way of doing things? He had no idea. 

"A girl," he repeated dazedly, but he thought he must be smiling, because Ser Selwyn seemed to relax, and handed him a cup of smallbeer. 

 

How long could it possibly take, to clean a newborn babe and to change sheets? Surely not as long as this. Six bells came and went, and still the door remained closed. Jaime was quite sure that if Ser Selwyn hadn't been there with him, he would have been pounding on the door by now, but the older man also looked tense. 

When the door finally opened wide, Senna looking weary, but she was smiling, which somewhat dispelled Jaime's worst fears. 

She stepped aside, and Jaime went in, Ser Selwyn staying behind to speak with Senna.

Brienne was sat in the bed, leaning back on a mountain of cushions, face flushed and tired but somehow glowing with happiness. Tucked against her chest was a small bundle, and Jaime could look only at them, at his wife and daughter, as if invisible strings called him forward. 

He was almost at the bed when a small cry from the other side of the room drew his attention away from Brienne's face, and there he saw Mrs. Smallwood deftly swaddle a tiny baby, and—

From this angle he could see the tiny, wrinkled, red face of the baby on Brienne's chest, and he felt like he'd been hit on the head as he looked back to Mrs. Smallwood, then back to Brienne again.

"Yes, that was… that was how I felt too," Brienne smiled tiredly.

He almost lunged forward to kiss her, suddenly shaken out of his shock. Gods, she was  _ alive _ , she was well, he could feel the weariness in her but she was  _ well _ , and they had a child, no—unlooked for,  _ two  _ children.   

"Come my Lord, off with your boots and onto the bed," Mrs Smallwood said cheerfully, bringing over the second child. 

He obeyed without thinking and climbed onto the bed next to Brienne, sitting pressed against her side.

"Two beautiful daughters," the old woman announced, laying the second baby in his arms, warm and unexpectedly heavy. He stared at that little face in delayed shock while Ser Selwyn came in very briefly to kiss his daughter on the forehead and congratulate them both. 

When he'd left Mrs. Smallwood assisted Brienne in getting both babies to nurse, explaining that the first mother's milk was important for the health of the babies, and that a wetnurse had come from the village to supplement. Jaime had never known a highborn lady to feed her children herself, but it didn't surprise him that if anyone, it would be Brienne.

Senna brought in a tray of food, sweet breadrolls still warm from the oven with fresh soft goats cheese and honey. Apparently by morning the baker would have made enough of the rolls for the entire village; a tradition when a future Evenstar was born. He idly wondered if both their daughters would bear that title, how that worked.  

Jaime prepared bites for Brienne and they ate like that, sitting together with their two daughters. After a time Brienne dozed off with the babies cuddled against her. Jaime just sat there, his arms encircling his family, and watched their faces as outside the bells tolled and tolled.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the glacially slow updates. This story started fighting me a while ago and wrapping it up is not coming easily.

The first week in the life of Joanna and Lyanna of Tarth passed by Jaime in a blur of new experiences, sleep deprivation and deep anxiety.    


A short, plump baker's wife called Astryd, who had been in the process of weaning off her fifth child, came up to the castle early in the morning and was with them into the afternoon. Initially only to feed the babies to supplement what Brienne could offer, but her confident air and cheerful demeanor made her a comfort to have around, and soon enough she was daytime nursery maid as well as wetnurse. One of the girls who worked in the brewery and lived in servants quarters could assist in the evening and at night, but after a few days Brienne's body was equal to the task of feeding twins, and it was rarely necessary.   


Jaime had never been aware of a high-born lady to have her child in her rooms; the usual arrangement was a live-in wetnurse staying with the child in a nursery. Even Cersei, who by court standards had doted on her children to an obsessive degree, hadn't had her babies in her rooms. It wasn't a surprise to him that Brienne preferred to be more hands-on; it  _ was  _ a surprise that he did, too. The twins slept in bassinets in her room at night, and while a nightshift maid was only a bell-pull away, between the two of them they rarely did so.   


On Astryd's suggestion, Jaime would get up to bring the babies to Brienne at night if they should cry, so that she could nurse them without having to get up or even fully wake. Soon enough Brienne suggested that Jaime leave the door between their rooms open, and he would sit by her on the edge of the bed while she cradled their daughters close and they calmed at their mother's breast.   


Jaime got more comfortable holding the babies than he'd expected to, finding ways—advised by Astryd— to pick them up and cradle them close that felt secure enough even with one hand. He still preferred to sit down with them when they were squalling and squirmy, but the initial fear of dropping them passed soon enough.   


On the sixth night, he sat down at some dark hour of night to wait for Brienne to finish nursing the babies, and woke up in the same place at dawn. Brienne was asleep peacefully next to him, Joanna in the crook of her arm, Lyanna slipped down into her lap. 

  
He shook himself awake, all too aware that he wasn't meant to be there, that she hadn't given him leave. He might have been invited into the role of her husband, her bed was a wholly separate boundary and one he wouldn't make assumptions about.   


His climbing out of the bed woke Lyanna, who began to make disgruntled noises, and he picked her up before she could wake her sister and mother. With her head tucked against the crook of his neck she burbled happily, for the moment content just to be held. He'd already learned that Lyanna liked best to be walked with, something about the motion soothing to her. That's how he ended up idly drilling his fighting footwork with her in his arms, practising left-leading step patterns in bare feet on the stone floor while the sun rose over the horizon.   


His nightmares, which had largely eased off in the months he'd been on Tarth, had suddenly returned with a new theme - something happening to the girls, to Brienne, and him unable to do anything. It was the same old powerless panic he'd experienced after losing his hand, only with a new focus. He returned to his daily sword drills, grimly determined to master a left-handed style. He'd never be as good as he had been, but it wasn't as if he planned to measure himself in a tournament. If he trained more, worked harder, he at least stood a chance of being good  _ enough _ . Certainly better than if he allowed his training to slip even further.   


Brienne didn't wake until Astryd came in, and surely she'd realised he'd fallen asleep next to her, but neither of them said anything. He made sure to sit down in a chair the next night, instead of on her bed.

 

"You can— if you want, you can stay," she said a few nights later, her eyes on a sleeping Lyanna in her lap while he nestled Joanna back into her crib.   


"Do you mean—" it honestly took him a moment to formulate a reply, and he came over to take Lyanna to her crib. "Stay here? To sleep?"

She nodded, and he hated the things that had happened—the things he had done—to make her so hesitant to voice this. He paused when he'd tucked in Lyanna, letting his hand glide over the baby's head, giving Brienne some more time to speak. She looked hesitant in the light of the single candle.   


"I liked it when you were—" she glanced next to her at the space he'd occupied. "When you fell asleep with us. It felt like, like we were a family." Her voice was unsure, as if she wasn't quite convinced of the wisdom of admitting to this.   


"So did I," he smiled, hoping to dispel the notion . "Though we should perhaps find a way to make sure we don't roll onto the babies, if we plan to make a habit out of it."

Astryd turned out to have an idea for that, in the form of a wicker basket just big enough for both the girls, nestled between Brienne's pillow and Jaime's. It put them apart a little further than Jaime might have liked, but Brienne did not comment on it, so he didn't either.   


They kissed sometimes, Gentle and, if not chaste, then at least without any agenda. Cersei hadn't been interested in him for months after her babies; even if Brienne would be interested in more than this, he did not think that would happen anytime soon.   


Everything had moved so  _ fast  _ before, in Winterfell. From kissing for the first time to coupling within—minutes, probably. A frantic release of a tension built up over years, all the urgency of feelings finally acknowledged and restraint thrown into the wind, like horses bolting from a stable without heed of danger.   


That had ended so poorly for them that Jaime thought that perhaps this was for the best, slow steps with pauses to feel and acknowledge every new stage in their slowly growing intimacy. Being invited to sleep next to her, even though his presence wasn't really necessary now the babies slept in their basket right next to Brienne, felt like a meaningful step.   


It also made Jaime more aware of Brienne's habits. Before, he would go to bed whenever it suited him, usually after she had already bedded down; it hardly mattered as long as he was ready to come to help in the depth of night when the babies woke. Now, without quite planning to do so, he went to his chambers at the same time as she did. A page helped him dress for the night - a service he resented needing, but appreciated all the same - and he would then go to Brienne's rooms when Senna had finished readying her and the girls for the night.   


They would sit up in bed together, Brienne feeding the babies and, often enough, Jaime reading to her from a book of lighthearted travel stories written by a retired sea captain. It was the most domestic thing he'd ever done and the first time he'd read to her he'd instantly fell in love with it, the way it made him part of the moment, let him contribute to it. He could already picture them sitting on the bed together when the girls were old enough to listen to the story themselves, just them in their own little universe.      


"I'll need to start thinking of stories suitable for small children, soon enough," he said one night as he helped Brienne nestle the babies into their wicker basket. "I don't know how much they'd enjoy the sordid tales of the Sunspear dock taverns."   


"Lady Catelyn once told me that Lord Stark's mother had written down all the stories she told her children, and kept it as a book in the library," Brienne said idly, pressing a kiss to Lyanna's forehead. "So that her children could tell them to their own children."

"I like the thought of that. Might need some help in the writing, but…" he'd mastered writing of a sort, with his left, but it wouldn't ever become pleasantly legible. Dictating to a clerk would be better. He definitely needed a tale about the pottery and the sea magic in there.  


His thoughts trailed off, noticing the unwavering look Brienne was giving him from her side of the bed.   


"What?"

Her lips quirked, and she beckoned him with one hand to come back to her side of the bed. He moved across the open space kept by the wicker basket between their pillows, posting on his elbow.   


Brienne's hand cupped his jaw, and she drew him down for a kiss, soft and unhurried. Her other hand carded through his hair - longer again now, but she seemed to like it that way - and oh, that low hum he just made caused her to smile into the kiss. He slid his right arm to her waist, and they weren't quite pressed against one another, but there wasn't a lot of space between them either.   


The kiss came to an end eventually, and they lay with their heads close together on her pillow.

"Gods, the things you've given me," he sighed. "I never thought I would have this kind of life."

"It is the same for me," she whispered, thumb stroking his brow. "I never thought I would have this, either. That anybody would want this with me."   


They'd already blown out the candles, but he thought he saw her eyes gleam wetly by the sparse moonlight coming in through the windows.   


He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her cheek, then to her lips. 

"Couldn't imagine this with anybody else."

She smiled and pressed closer, her head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her shoulders. He'd probably be numb in a couple of hours, but it would be worth it just to feel her doze off like this, curled against him.   


"We should talk about the Name Day Ball tomorrow," she murmured, and shortly after her breath went slow and steady with sleep. Jaime lay there with his wife asleep on him on one side and their two babies so sweetly on the other, and wasn't sure if a human heart was designed to contain such happiness. 

  
  
  


"I was thinking Midsummer for the ball," Ser Selwyn said. "It's just over two months hence, so travel should be easy even from Winterfell, if any should want to come."

Brienne nodded, her heart leaping at the thought that Lady Sansa might come meet her daughters, even though it was unlikely that the Queen of the North would be willing to leave her realm so soon already. Midsummer was a convenient time almost anywhere; the planting and sowing done, plenty of time yet before harvest would begin. The winds were mild around that time of year, making for easy sea travel. It was certainly the best time to tempt far-flung nobles into making a lengthy journey to Tarth.   


"I've drawn up a guest list," her father handed her a piece of paper, written on both sides, "and I'd ask you both to add whomever you'd like to be present. We'll begin writing invitations this afternoon."

Jaime grimaced a little at the mention of writing. She could read his notes, but he hated that it looked like children's handwriting.   


"Don't worry, writing invitations isn't the only task that needs doing," she said.   


She wasn't really sure how much he knew about organising events like these. He'd left Casterly Rock young, and he'd been brought up to Lordship, assuming he'd have a wife to organise these kinds of domestic affairs.   


She didn't think he'd gained the experience she had in supporting her father when it came to the various celebrations and balls than a hall such as Evenfall was expected to give throughout the year. She'd never thought of balls with pleasure; at best they were a lot of work and expense to organise. At worst they were an anxiety inducing gauntlet of young men looking at her with marked disdain.   


"I am willing to be tasked," he nodded. "Shall we compile that list, first?"

Her father left them to it for a while, sitting together on the big sofa in the solar. Jaime's thigh was pressed against hers as they read the list together. The further down the names she went, the bleaker Brienne felt.   


It shouldn't have been a surprise that these were primarily the Lords of the Stormlands, men who needed to be invited to such an important event to maintain relationships and strengthen political bonds. Which meant that virtually all her childhood bullies were on the list, young men who had tormented her and would now, more like than not, be sent to represent their houses.   


As well as a number of men who'd been present in Renly's camp and had thus been aware of that horrible bet.   


Perhaps they'd come with their ladies, no doubt elegant and dainty women in fashionable dresses who'd borne them sons.   


She was delighted with their daughters and trusted that Jaime and her father were too; it did not matter on Tarth, where her father had changed the law so that daughters could inherit. To the outside world, on the mainland, a firstborn daughter would still be considered unfortunate.    


Jaime hummed. He knew some of the names on the list, but not nearly all, the Lannisters not having been terribly interested in the minor houses of the Stormlands. He turned over the paper to read the back.    


Gods, she'd caught a touch of his enthusiasm about the prospect of a ball, before. At the prospect of dancing with him at that ball. She'd completely forgotten who would be present, and she wasn't sure if she could explain it.   


"Who among these names would you consider a friend?" Jaime finally asked, having read the other side of the page also.   


Oh, but he  _ did  _ know. She wasn't sure if she felt more embarrassed or more relieved that she didn't have to explain it.   


"Many of them are friends of my father or my house, who have been polite enough to me in the past," she said. "I see perhaps a dozen names of people I would expect to have a friendly personal conversation with, beyond polite pleasantries."

"Mm. And how many you expect the opposite from?"

How she hated having to admit to this. She knew he knew about her childhood, she'd told him some, in bits and pieces. And she knew he was smart enough to connect the dots. That didn't mean she wanted to show him that awkward, vulnerable girl who'd had to cultivate a blank expression so nobody would see her cry.

"—more than a dozen," she finally sighed. _A lot more_.  


"Well, let's see if we can outnumber them, then," he said, glancing at her with a slight smile. "With people who know you for a knight of the seven kingdoms and a hero of the Long Night."

She wanted to protest that she was not a knight, but he sat down at the writing desk, considering, "Gendry will come, I imagine, since he's Tarth's immediate liege lord and still looking to strengthen bonds with the houses. Arya, if she's there. Ser Davos is with Gendry at Storm's End, he'll come too if you ask…" he scratched down some names, frowning down at his own handiwork. "Winterfell—hard to say if Lady Sansa might come, but worth hoping for, and perhaps Jon?"

"Uh, I doubt it, but an invitation wouldn't hurt, I guess," she said weakly.   


"Tormund?" he grinned, looking up from writing names. "Perhaps better not."

Brienne was still reeling with the thought that Jaime meant to specifically invite people who knew and respected her, to counter the young men whose presence could not be avoided for political reasons. Jaime had already moved on.   


"I don't know if King Brandon would come, but he'll send Tyrion, and Pod of course, and I'd like to invite Bronn if you have no objections…"

"No, that would be—that would be fine," Brienne said. Bronn had been given Rook's Rest, in the end; a modest castle on the Blackwater Bay that had been vacant since the Dragon Queen had passed through the area. Apparently he'd contented himself with a much smaller prize than Highgarden after Bran had said that Rook's Rest would give him a dynasty while Highgarden wouldn't be his for more than five years.   


"Sandor Clegane? I believe he's a Ser now, the King knighted him while he was still injured enough that he couldn't run away," Jaime said with amusement.   


It was a strange thought for Brienne to have the Hound at a ball, this man that she'd thought she'd killed, who had nearly killed her. But they seemed to have gotten to a place of truce and even grudging respect, and fighting the Long Night had forged bonds that far surpassed ordinary connections. She wasn't sure if she'd call him a particular friend, but imagining him at the Name Day ball was surprisingly agreeable.   


"You mean to have a reunion of the Long Night," she said with amusement.  _ Only without the wights.  
_

"Perhaps," Jaime grinned unrepentantly. "But they are all people who respect you and will be glad to share in your happiness. Between them they might drown out the rancor of the  _ little lords _ ," he said it with such arrogant disdain that she smiled a little, "who remember scorning you growing up."

A warm glow in her chest flared at the realisation that with the exception of Tyrion, Pod and Bronn, none of the people he proposed inviting held any love for him. The marked opposite even, in some cases; some would certainly have something to say about the way he'd left her in Winterfell. No, his proposal to invite them was purely for her comfort, because he wanted her to enjoy the ball where they would present their daughters to the world.   


She felt quite flustered and warm all of a sudden, trying to find words to thank him and failing. Gods, it was all so  _ much _ , the things he gave to her, all this consideration. Far more than anybody had ever shown her, or that she'd ever had cause to expect in her life. To her own horror, her eyes were suddenly flowing over.

"Oh, hey, no—" she had her hands covering her face, but she heard his chair scrape against the floor. "Sweetling, if you'd rather—" he sat down next to her, and she pressed into his embrace when he offered it. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"I'm not upset!" she sobbed.

"Pardon me," he said, and she could hear his smile. "A rash assumption on my part."

She was expecting more japes from him, but instead he drew her head onto his shoulder and held her close, his hand cupping the back of her head. Her breath shuddered out of her as she pressed her face into the side of his neck, letting her arms go around him in return. She could feel his pulse against her cheek, could feel his slow, steady breathing, and gradually she calmed.   


As soon as the great rush of undefined emotion and tears faded, it was replaced by embarrassment. Jaime hadn't stopped his idle stroking of her back.

"Are you feeling a little better?" he pressed a kiss to her forehead. She nodded, not quite ready to show her face just yet. "Shall I just leave the guest list to you and your father?"

"No, no," she pulled upright, because he seemed to think he'd done something wrong and she needed to make sure he— "Your plans are, I just suddenly—I think it's the most consideration anybody has ever shown for my feelings…"

His smile grew slowly as she spoke, and it was nothing like the smiles she'd used to see from him, triumphant and smug for having gotten a rise out of her, breaking her composure. No, this was warm and affectionate and it quite took her breath. She swallowed thickly, feeling tears press close again.   


"And then you felt all your feelings at the same time?"   


It startled a laugh-sob out of her, and she ducked her head again. He was laughing too, soft and fond.   


"Something like that," she chuckled. 

 

The afternoon and most of the next day way occupied by writing invitations, Brienne and her father sat on opposite sides of her father's big writing desk. Jaime alternately worked on his own letters - to be added to a couple of the invitations - and laid down on the ground with the twins, who were on sheepskins on the floor. There was a stained glass window in the solar, long ago designed by Brienne's mother and depicting one of Tarth's great vistas, and the girls were fascinated by the light that fell through.   


Brienne saw Jaime with their daughters every day and hadn't yet tired of watching him dote on them—how could she? She didn't think she ever would. Ser Selwyn hadn't really had a chance to observe this yet though, and it made her smile to see her father look up as often as he did. If either of them had any lingering fears that Jaime would prefer a son, that fear was put to rest today. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long break in posting! I really ran out of steam, and though chapters 12 has been written for some time, I held them back because I knew I probably wouldn't write the rest if I posted them. Now that I really am nearly done, here it is. 
> 
> Also, this one is smutty!

Messages had gone out weeks ago and the first replies began to come in; from the villages, a few from the mainland by raven directly, and most post was expected when next a ship came from Storm's End, where slow mail for Tarth was collected. Options for the feast were discussed with the cook; Brienne was pressed to give her opinion on myriad things concerning decoration. Jaime made an effort to involve himself. He might not have any experience in organising such a feast, but he could tell that she cared as little for decorations and seating plans as he did, and it did not seem fair to leave it all on her shoulders.  

He continued to spar, but frustration with his new limitations often got the better of him. His left hand couldn't come close to the power and precision he'd possessed with his right, and while the hook was practical, he hadn't really found a way to use it as anything other than pure defense. 

"You know, the First Mate who sails on the  _ Gannet  _ uses a hook," Brienne said thoughtfully, when she'd come to watch him train one morning. "And he's faced pirates with it. He should return next week, you could ask him to train with you."

He cheered with the thought of that, with the idea of new and different technique instead of trying to mirror everything he'd learned since he was a boy. 

"That would be interesting. I feel like I'm inventing my own version of the wheel here." He racked his practice sword and wiped his face and neck with a cloth. When he looked at her again he caught her glancing at the open neck of his shirt.

Oh.

That was… he wasn't sure why that set off a glow in his chest. He'd been very certain in Winterfell that she enjoyed looking at him. It was hardly shocking that she still did, and yet he'd done his best to banish any expectations of heading down that road with her. It was easier to be content if he thought about what he'd regained with her instead of yearned for what was lost and might not recover. 

"Won't you come spar with me, my Lady? Being schooled might do me good," he said, grinning. 

She blushed, caught looking, but held her ground. 

"Perhaps tomorrow. After your training is done, I thought we might walk down to the beach."

"Oh?" It wasn't her habit to leave the twins with Astryd or the other nurse. Even if she was busy working, they usually stayed in the room with her. 

"My father has them with him in the solar and—"

—had probably suggested that the two of them take some time together, Jaime imagined. 

"Yes," he said, probably too fast, too eager. "Yes. Let's go down to the beach."

 

In very short order they had supplies, food and drink, and soft drying cloths, as well as a loyal following of three dogs. Brienne was notably easier on her feet than the last time they'd done this. He knew she wasn't completely recovered, that it would take time to build back her strength, but he was glad to see her walk once again without effort.

She sat on the same large boulder as she had last time when they paused to take off their shoes. He knelt down and took off hers for her even though it was no longer a struggle to do it herself, and when he straightened up she was looking at him in a way— he wasn't sure, but it made his mouth go dry. 

She put her hands on his forearms and gently tugged him closer, until he was standing between her knees. He was just slightly taller looking at her like this, and very close, and her eyes glanced down to his lips, and—

They had kissed before, since he'd come back. These last few weeks, almost every night. But not like  _ this _ .

Not with that soft, low sound of satisfaction in her throat. Not with her hands going to his side, or his hand sliding into her hair. Not this  _ hungry _ .  _ Gods  _ it was just as hot now as it had been in Winterfell, only maybe more so because they'd built up to this, they knew each other more now. She knew that he—

"I love you," he blurted, pulling back a little, because maybe she  _ didn't  _ know and that was suddenly  _ unbearable _ . "I've always—gods, I— loving you is the easiest thing in the world."

He wasn't sure if that came out right, if she understood the part that he wouldn't say out loud; that he'd always thought that love was hard because loving Cersei was always hard, had required so much sacrifice and effort to keep her happy, swallowing so much he couldn't make peace with. Loving Brienne made him  _ better  _ than he was, and it was only now that he could see how much loving Cersei had always dragged him down.  

She seemed to understand his meaning, was smiling at him as he said it, her amazing eyes a little extra shiny.

"I love you too," she said, her hand sliding up his arm. "I couldn't even stop when I wanted to, and I definitely no longer want to."

The next moment they were kissing again, hungry for each other, her arms going around him, and  _ Gods  _ she was like a hurricane sweeping him away. By way of a restraint that should be written about in legends he finally backed off a little, so that he was no longer a mere twitch away from grinding himself against her.

If they were going to do this again - and seven hells, he hoped so - then he didn't want it to be some rushed rutting with hard rock scraping their skin. Even had she not given birth to their daughters just barely seven weeks ago, he wanted her in a soft bed, wanted to go slow, take hours to show her all the tender feelings he held for her. Perhaps he also wanted to prove to himself and to her that he had self restraint. He wanted it to be what Winterfell had not been. 

"Are you in the mood for a swim?" he asked, still breathing hard from the kiss. "I could do with a cold dip."

She had a lovely blush to her cheeks, and thankfully she seemed to understand his  _ not here _ , and nodded. 

 

The dogs loped ahead as, rather than walk to town, they went in the other direction. There was a sheltered cove he had seen when looking out from the gardens, where the waves crashed on the rocks further out, making the swell inside minimal, just gentle little wavelets. By unspoken agreement they kept on their smallclothes.

The water was wonderful, refreshing but not frigid. It was the first time he'd swam in the sea since he'd left Casterly Rock as a boy, and the first time he'd swam at all since losing his hand. The way the salt water made him float easier took him by surprise, and he spent some time relearning how to swim now he was lopsided. 

Brienne swam laps for a while, as powerful a swimmer as he'd expected her to be, long limbs making strong strokes. Her expression told him that she tired sooner than she liked, but she seemed pleased nonetheless, light. When she was tired she let herself float for a while, stretched out on her back with her pale hair floating around her like a halo. 

He watched. As if he could have stopped himself. 

It was a wonderful realisation that he didn't have to try. She was his  _ wife _ . He was allowed to look. 

He could see her torso rising a little higher in the water with each inhale, sinking a little deeper on the exhale. He tried not to focus on her breasts, but the nipples were tight and tempting through the thin fabric of her undershirt. Pregnancy and nursing had made her breasts a little more substantial, had changed their shape. He was eager to know how they felt now, what sort of sensations his touches would give to her. 

Or perhaps she would prefer not to have him touch them at all; he had no idea, but the thought that it might soon become relevant to know… He was resolutely not thinking of the sounds she had made when he'd put his lips to her nipples, back in Winterfell. The point of the swim was to cool himself down, not get further worked up. 

Jaime felt drawn closer by the peaceful look on her face, by her closed eyes and faint smile and her whole body at ease in a way he'd never thought to see. She'd always been on guard, shoulders a little hunched, always ready to take a blow. 

Gods, he was so glad that she'd gone back home to Tarth. He couldn't imagine any other place where she could have found this kind of peace. He moved in, walking slowly in the chest-deep water and trying not to disturb it so as to not give away his approach. The twitch of her smile suggested that she'd probably sensed him anyway, but he quietly moved to where her short shift had floated up, baring her stomach. There was a curve there that hadn't been there before, stripes of colour left behind by their daughters, and he couldn't help himself, he pressed a kiss to that bared skin.

He thought she'd been expecting him, but she'd evidently not expected  _ that  _ touch, because she yelped and instinctively curled around the touch, splashing and nearly sinking below the surface for a moment. His arms came up reflexively to catch her, keep her head above water.

"Jaime!" Laughing, scolding, not sounding nearly as indignant as she might have meant to sound. 

"Who else were you expecting?" he said against her stomach, between kissing the damp, salty skin. He could lift her on dry land well enough, but here she was weightless in the water, and he easily lifted her to him. He kissed a path over her damp, near see-through shift, between her breasts and to the pale column of her throat. "Some merman?"

She moved more upright, and he thought she might tackle him, but instead she slung her legs around his waist and crossed them behind his back, a band of pure strength and heat in the cool water. He wrapped his arms around her, his left under her bottom, his right between her shoulderblades, and then they were kissing again,  _ gods _ . The heated press of her torso all along his body, ground against him intimately, her hips making small movements he wasn't sure she was aware of. Wet smallclothes did not seem like that much of a deterrent all of a sudden. Her arms twined around his neck, one of her hands in his hair.

"Perhaps I'm the one who is about to be taken away by a mermaid," he gasped against her throat. 

They kissed more, endless deep kisses that made him feel like he was drowning in the best possible way. 

It ended only because the dogs, done chasing each other for the moment, began to bark. Jaime wasn't sure if they'd seen somebody or if they were just calling Brienne out of the water, but the heated moment passed and they made their way to shore, shoulders brushing.

 

A wide flat rock offered a good seat as they used drying cloths to take the worst damp off their smallclothes and let the sun do some of the rest. Brienne, nowhere near as pale as she'd been in the North but still prone to sunburn, probably shouldn't stay in the sun too much longer. 

He couldn't resist trailing a finger up the long line of her leg, sturdy ankle all the way to powerful thigh.  _ Seven _ , she was magnificent. Her little shiver tempted him into bending over her to kiss her again. 

"We could continue this conversation in our bed, wife," he murmured into her ear, low and breathy, relishing the way it made her draw in a sharp breath, her movement to get up arrested for just a moment.

When she gathered herself enough to turn to him, her eyes were heated. 

"Tonight," she said, her tone making it obvious that if the circumstances were more suitable, she would prefer not to wait that long. 

"Mmm, or we could go back now, sneak to our rooms…" he suggested. "I'm sure your father would not mind having the girls with him this afternoon."

  
  


The Lady of Evenfall Hall, especially when she looked as distinct as Brienne did, could not exactly sneak into the castle. But the maid who greeted them nodded that she would pass the message to Ser Selwyn that they would be indisposed for the afternoon. Brienne's already sun-flushed cheeks turned crimson when Jaime asked the girl to have a tray of food sent up, to be left in his room so they could easily retrieve it without needing to venture into the hallway.

"Do you have to make it so  _ obvious _ ?" she hissed at him when they headed up the stairs together. 

He halted in his tracks, tugging on her hand, and kissed her there in full view of half the castle. As soon as their lips touched he felt his heart kick up double time. Being seen like this with the woman he loved went against a lifetime of ingrained secrecy and every instinct he had. He still did it, letting his desire to make a point overpower his own discomfort. 

Brienne made an outraged sound, hands coming up to his chest as if to push him away, but then she melted into the kiss.

"Does that answer your question?" he said when they finally parted. She was flushed, her lips a little swollen, her eyes the brightest blue he'd ever seen them.

She huffed like an indignant cat, and turned away to ascend the rest of the stairs, but she didn't let go of his hand. He gave hers a squeeze. 

"I apologise. I wish for the world to see how much I love and desire you—" her steps stuttered a moment, as if she was still shocked that he'd just  _ say  _ those words, out loud, like it was nothing, "—but it didn't really feel like  _ us _ . I will be more restrained in the future."

"You, restrained," she said with deep amusement. 

"Do you doubt that I can be discrete?"

As soon as he'd said it he regretted it. No, of course she wouldn't doubt that he could be secretive about his love. 

 

Once in their rooms she went to draw close the bedcurtains, and he stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

"Leave them open?" He hadn't meant to sound so breathless. 

She frowned, looking at the entrance door, at the direct view from it to the bed. Did she think he wanted to be seen by servants?

"Just this one then," Jaime said, drawing close only the curtain at the foot end of the bed, to ensure a modicum of privacy should a servant come in. "I would like to have light."

Brienne sat down on the edge of the bed and looked on, expression a careful neutral, as he went around to open windows, bathing the bed in the light and the gentle breeze of the early summer day. 

Seeing her sit there he wondered briefly, belatedly, if she still wanted the cover of darkness, of a sheltered cave of a bed, with curtains and thick stacks of furs. She'd told him, in a voice quiet as breathing, about how her Septa growing up had told her to blow out the candles so her husband wouldn't have to look at her. Was this still about that, or a more general feeling of needing shelter before she could allow herself to be vulnerable? He had no idea how to ask. 

He went to her, pressed a kiss to her forehead. He could feel her tension, and tried not to lose heart. She'd seemed so at ease on the beach, giddy as a girl, so eager for him. Perhaps the thought of it was as yet more appealing than the reality, now it was before her? 

On a belated thought he stepped away to put the bolt on the door, even though a servant would knock, even though the bedcurtain ensured they wouldn't be seen on the bed. Brienne's shoulders eased a little, though she didn't smile. He wondered if she was relieved that he'd guessed the source of her discomfort - or one of them, anyway - or uncomfortable with being so known. Her face still had that blank, distant seriousness when he came before her again. 

"I would like to… to be allowed to love you in the daylight," he told her in a low tone. "To not have to hide it as if it's unworthy or wrong. I just… I don't really know how to do that, yet. In a way that we're both comfortable with."

"I forget that you don't know what that's like any more than I do," she said with the glimpse of a smile. "When you're so… showy… about it, that makes me feel awkward, as if you're trying to…" she hesitated. "to prove something."

He heard the unspoken  _ something you don't feel _ and gods, that was  _ unbearable _ , that she might think that, might worry about that. He grabbed for her hand and pressed it against his chest, over his heart.  

"Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I'd started doing it long before I even realised it," he said fervently, needing her to know. "And I will never regret anything as much as I regret giving you cause to doubt it."

"I know that," she said soothingly, and no, that wasn't— he didn't want her to feel called to comfort him when he was trying to comfort  _ her _ .

"When I say loving you, I also mean  _ desiring  _ you," he said. "In case that needs spelling out."

She looked away. Apparently it did need spelling out. 

"I thought that was obvious at the beach, earlier," he said gently. 

"I thought you—I didn't think—you didn't seem to—"

"I had no right to ask, after the pain I caused you. I meant to be respectful of your wishes."

"Oh." 

Her hand clutched into the front of his doublet. She seemingly dismissed her doubt and hesitation with the same ruthless efficiency he'd seen on the battlefield. Moving on to the next challenger. Which was apparently him.

She stood up, right into his space, and kissed him until his distraction had melted away. They undressed each other without wanting to stop kissing and caressing, unhurried but dedicated to the slow, deep meeting of their tongues. At one point she giggled because he was simultaneously trying to pull her shift over her head and keep kissing her. 

When he finally had her naked he gently backed her to the bed, until it pressed to the back of her knees and she sat down. Jaime hummed into her mouth and then straightened up to grab a pillow, tossing it on the floor. He sank down on it, between her knees. 

She flustered a little at his obvious intent. 

"Oh, you don't—I mean—" 

He lightly rubbed his beard against her thigh and waited patiently for her to finish the thought, but she just gestured vaguely, indicating him. He had done this in Winterfell a time or two, trying to coax her past her tension, but she'd never quite seemed comfortable with being paid this much attention. 

"I'd like to," he said softly, lifting her ankle and rubbing his cheek all along her lower leg, smiling a little when she twitched ticklishly. "Please."

After a draw-out moment of hesitation her mouth firmed with decision. She reached out to drag a pillow behind her head and shoulders, and the muscles in her thighs relaxed, allowing him more space. 

Jaime kissed the soft, sea-salty skin on her inner thigh and felt his own cock twitch in anticipation.

He didn't want to rush her. They'd done too much rushing in Winterfell, not enough slow, gentle exploration and too much charging off at a full gallop before they were barely seated on the horse. Too much hiding under blankets from the cold, quickly covering each exposed limb. 

It hadn't seemed wrong at the time. He'd never known differently than stolen moments and utmost secrecy

For his part he remembered jealously guarding their time against the outside world, trying to maintain their little bubble. Claiming her as much as he could get away with. He'd worked to keep out his own thoughts, too; he'd tried so hard not to think about the future, about his sense of impending doom that his time with Brienne was finite and his respite with her rapidly coming to an end. 

He didn't want this to be anything like Winterfell, which had ended so painfully. He wanted to overwrite every part of it. 

Here, in the warm summer breeze on this bed that was theirs, in this place where they were married, where an intruding servant meant no more than mild embarrassment, they had all the time in the world. He could stay here, he could keep her, he could keep on being hers, they could  _ have  _ this. 

 

_ Seven _ , the thought stunned him, and when he finally, finally pushed her over the brink—his mouth on her, his fingers in her, his maimed arm wrapped tight around her, her hand warmly cupping his head to her without pressure— his whole body was so primed to the sensations of her, to her scent and taste and motions and sound, that he came with her, helplessly, completely untouched.

She drew him up onto the bed and overtop her, making a low noise of satisfaction when he settled his weight onto her. He knew she loved this, his body fully on hers. It was how she had liked to peak, before in Winterfell, when he was in her; pressed down against the bed as if she might otherwise float away. Anchored, was her word for it.  _ Safe _ , was his, but he'd never said that aloud. 

She was still breathing fast, her face flushed, her whole body bonelessly relaxed. Jaime settled his head on the pillow next to her, his lips against the warm damp skin just under her ear. 

"You have no idea how much I've longed to do that again," he sighed. 

"I may have  _ some  _ idea," she chuckled. 

"Yes?" The lassitute of the moment was making his eyes feel heavy. 

She turned her head to kiss him, the heady depth of it making it clear that she was far from sated. The scrape of her blunt fingernails down his spine made him shiver. 

"I will, uh—need a little time before I can…"

She looked at him with surprise.

"I came when you did," he explained awkwardly. "Sorry, I—it was just—I lost control over myself."

This had happened once before, with Cersei, and his sister had not been pleased that he was unable to fuck her as and when she'd desired. 

"Your arms were busy..." Brienne half stated, half asked. 

"Yes. It just… happened. When you..." 

Brienne smiled, slow and wide, her eyes luminous in the afternoon sunlight. 

"I didn't know that—I guess I can stop worrying that you find that—" she flushed, apparently unsure how to refer to the act— "unpleasant, and only do it to please me."

"You thought I didn't like it?"

"When men talked about it, it never seemed like…"

Jaime laughed in relief at how different this was playing out than he'd feared. 

"Well, I hope your mind is put to rest, Wench."

She pressed close for a smiling kiss. 

Later, when he'd recovered, they made love the way he'd dreamed of, slow and heady, her eyes a brilliant bright blue in the lazy afternoon sunlight. Curled together on the bed afterward, a lazy tangle of sated bodies, Jaime felt that they had come in a circle, or rather, a spiral - back to the same level of intimacy as they'd had before, only now better, so much better. He may have wished to say something profound, but in the end they only hummed contentedly. 


	13. Chapter 13

Jaime became more and more restless as Midsummer approached, and it took a while for him to realise the source of his anxiety. In his eagerness to invite people who would support Brienne he'd ignored that most of those people had the absolute worst impression of him seared into their memories. These were the people who'd had to uphold the lie that he had married Brienne instead of leaving her in disgrace. 

He'd been living in such an idyllic bubble with Brienne since the birth of their daughters, the injuries he'd caused healing, the pain of their separation fading, the future more inviting than ever. Except now they would soon have visitors who had seen only the injuries and none of the healing, who would hold him responsible for hurting her—and they  _ should _ , that was the problem—and his stomach clenched at the prospect of having to revisit it all. 

It would be a miracle if none of them punched his lights out, really. Jaime's money was on Pod. 

Perhaps he should carry one or both of the twins at all time. They wouldn't punch him if he was carrying a baby, surely. 

 

"The lookouts at North Point report a ship with a direwolf flag. They've gone to anchor in Shelter's Cove."

Jaime felt a rush of affection for the way Brienne lit up; he knew she had hoped, but not expected, that Lady Sansa might come. 

"They'll be waiting for the tide to turn and help them into the Strait," Brienne nodded.

"That would be around nine bells tonight?" Jaime asked, trying to remember the ever shifting tidal times.  

He'd never in his life—his life before Tarth— needed to know tidal times, but Tarth had rhythms of its own. Storm season and pirate season and calm months, seeding and harvest, lambing time and shearing time and slaughter time, dry winds from the West and hot, damp winds full of rainclouds from the East, low tide and high tide and spring tides and neap tides. 

Tywin Lannister would have scoffed at the thought of a Lannister knowing such things, smallfolk knowledge that a Lord had no need to concern himself with. 

Jaime had realised not long after his arrival on Tarth that their familiarity with such rhythms was part of what made Ser Selwyn and Brienne so attuned to their island, so much in the middle of their community rather than above it. In his quest to fit the role of future Lord of Tarth, he'd done his best to become attuned to all these rhythms too. 

Brienne nodded approvingly.    
"Unless the wind changes, they could be here by noon tomorrow."

She was clearly looking forward to it, and he tried not to let his own apprehension show. 

"Are you worried?"

...Not that he'd ever been very successful at hiding his feelings from her. 

"I could not have left her with a worse opinion of me if I'd tried, and she did not start out with a great one."

Brienne came to stand next to him, looking out over the Strait of Tarth, her shoulder brushing his. 

"I sent her a letter."

"I know, I was there when you wrote it," he frowned. 

"No, another letter. About how well we are all doing, together."

"Oh."

 

He still didn't sleep well that night, woke up at dawn in a panic because  _ what if the servants found him in her bed _ . He only managed to talk himself down because Lyanna had woken from his sudden, frantic sitting up and he took her in his arms so she wouldn't wake Brienne. 

The little girl burbled peacefully against his chest, and he knew he was probably taking just as much comfort from the contact as she was. 

"You'll meet a Queen today," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Try not to spit up on her, because I would definitely have to tell that tale at your wedding feast one day."

At least it was Sansa. No telling what might have happened if a baby spit up on Daenerys . 

Not that that was even an option anymore. Daenerys had abdicated the throne somewhere around the time Jaime had come to Tarth, having decided that Kings Landing did not feel like the home she'd been searching for. According to Tyrion's letter she'd spent all her life striving to regain the kingdoms, believing it to be the place where she'd find fulfillment, and had then discovered that she cared more for having her people, her family, than her throne. She'd taken her dragon and her people - including the Unsullied leader, her advisor Missandei, and the still gravely injured Ser Jorah - and taken ship to a place where she could feel at peace. 

_ Bear Island was considered _ , Tyrion had written.  _ Since Jorah is the last Mormont now. But I reminded them that they hate the cold up there _ . To say nothing of the problems of Daenerys settling herself and her dragon down so close to Sansa, on the domains of one of the Stark bannermen. 

Last he'd heard, Queen Daenerys was on Lys, freeing slaves and making a home for herself and her family. Jaime would never have any love for a Targyaren, but at least Aerys' daughter had recognised that Kings Landing would not make her happy and abdicated the power that had so twisted her father. He could have some grudging respect for that. 

 

As soon as the ship was spotted in the bay, Jaime ordered the large carriage and a wagon be made ready. 

"We're bringing the girls, surely?" he turned to Brienne. 

"They've just gone down for their nap," she frowned. "Lady Sansa will meet them soon enough. Do you still want to have the girls there as… distraction?"

Oh, she knew him too well. 

"It's fine, let them sleep," he reluctantly agreed. He would have to face Lady Sansa's… it wouldn't be wrath, would it? Icy disdain was more her style. Her whatever-it-would-be, on his own.

 

When they arrived at the docks to meet the ship, which was just tying up, to Jaime's surprise Tyrion was on deck, observing the mooring proceedings. He came to the railing immediately, and Gods, Jaime had  _ missed  _ his brother, his voice and his face and his clever observations. The tide was high, the ship tall enough that Tyrion was looking down on him. 

"You look like you've come back to life," he said, thankfully in enough of an undertone that Jaime didn't think Brienne had heard from where she was talking to the Mate. "A welcome difference from the last time I saw you."

Jaime wore his hair long again, not quite brushing his shoulders, and a servant had trimmed his beard. Sparring and good food and a lack of despair had restored him. Clad in the well-made blue livery of Tarth he suspected he looked like a new man. 

He winced a little at what he must have looked like, leaving King's Landing. Or worse, when he first arrived on Tarth after two months of aimless wandering and hedgerow sleeping. He wondered if it had been as bad as when Brienne first met him in his captivity by the Starks. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to know.

"Who has come?" he asked. It was clearly a Stark ship - perhaps Lady Sansa was still in her cabin. 

"Queen Sansa has visited her brother for a couple of weeks, and then kindly agreed to take myself and Podrick and Bronn along with her on the  _ Wolf Moon _ ," he gestured at the ship. "The Hound apparently does not enjoy sea travel; he decided he'd rather ride to Storm's End and take the short crossing from there."

It was nine to ten days to Tarth by ship from King's Landing, and little more than a day from Storm's End, so Jaime couldn't blame the man. 

Brienne had called over the harbour master and arranged for him to bring a platform with steps, so that the ship's gangway wouldn't have to lead down too steeply for the honoured guests. 

The Captain of the  _ Wolf Moon _ was on deck to make sure he was moored off to his satisfaction. Recognising him as in command - though Jaime wasn't sure how, the captain wore mostly the same stuff as the sailors - Brienne hailed him welcome. 

The man greeted her, and they got into a conversation about the tidal levels, and what the best anchorage would be once the guests and their things had debarked. Jaime heard interest in the captain's tone, who clearly had not expected this amount of practical prescience from the Lady of the island. 

Jaime looked at her as another might see her, here in her element. Not beautiful, it was true, but striking with her stature and clear voice and commanding presence. She wore a long blue tunic today over breeches, one of Senna's wrapped creations that found a satisfying compromise between practicality and femininity. It was embroidered in pink along the hem and tied with a sash around her waist. Jaime particularly enjoyed these garments because if he untied the sash, the fabric unwrapped almost like a coat; easy for him to manage with one hand. 

He shook his head a little, trying to distract himself from that mental image. The Captain was still talking to Brienne and he suddenly felt a stab of that same hot uncomfortable feeling he'd known when Tormund admired her.  _ You can't have her, she's mine _ .

"Lady Brienne looks well."

Jaime jerked back to Tyrion and found Lady Sansa standing next to his brother, looking down on Jaime with cool eyes. 

"Lady Sansa," he bowed. "Doesn't she? I'd never thought to see somebody recover from childbirth as quickly as she has."

Lady Sansa looked like she wanted to say something, about expectations perhaps, but Tyrion spoke in a low tone, and she only nodded. Perhaps he'd reminded her of how Jaime and Tyrion's mother had died. 

 

Not long later the gangway was declared safe, and the guests were helped onto the quayside, followed by their travel chests. Jaime witnessed with a smile as Lady Sansa greeted Brienne, who bowed very formally and was then utterly shocked to get embraced in return. Her cheeks went pink with pleasure at the fondly familiar greeting. 

Jaime knew how long and hard she'd had to fight for acknowledgement of her worth as a person and a knight, how monumental it had been for Lady Sansa to accept her service. To not only have her trust and esteem but also her friendship? It had to be a lifelong dream and Jaime couldn't get enough of Brienne's smile. 

Pod—Ser Podrick— stood waiting respectfully to greet Brienne. He seemed like a grown man all of a sudden, and it seemed strange to think that a whole year had passed since Jaime had last seen him. Or maybe it was that he'd always been Brienne's squire, even though he'd really been too old for it by the end, and now he stood on his own, a member of the Kingsguard, currently serving as Sansa's Queensguard. 

Jaime kneeled down so that he was face to face when Tyrion came to embrace him, and his little brother gave him a hard squeeze. 

" _ Gods _ , am I glad to see you," he said softly, and the intensity of his relief made Jaime wonder just how bad he'd been when he left King's Landing. He could hardly remember, but from his brother's reaction he suspected that Tyrion had expected to hear of his death, some sad ending by the hand of a low-rate brigand, rather than of the birth of his daughters. 

"Did you bring…"

"Yes, a whole chest of things. I thought they were probably best left with you."

Jaime had asked Tyrion if there was anything left of the Lannister heirlooms that their father had brought to King's Landing and which their sister had taken possession of after his death. Among them some precious items from their mother; a few special pieces of jewelry, her shawl, and the Lannister wedding cloak. 

Brienne and their daughters would always be of Tarth, they would not carry his name except as a distant afterthought, but that didn't mean his heritage needed to be denied entirely. 

Jaime wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, but Bronn's greeting to Brienne was warmer than to himself. When he did come to slap Jaime on the back, he said under his breath, "You're damn lucky she didn't take my offer, you know."

Well. She'd never even mentioned that, though he supposed it wasn't surprising that Bronn had offered for her hand. He admired her and she had a lot of the things to offer that he'd always strived for; it might have seemed like a logical move. The alternate version of events stretched out before him; finally coming to Tarth to see Bronn next to her. Jaime supposed he'd have found a job on a ship, or in some remote town. All the while hoping that Bronn would treat the twins as if they were his own, that he would appreciate what he had. 

Jaime came back to reality with a start. 

"I  _ am  _ lucky, at that," he agreed.

 

* * *

 

Brienne didn't hear the low-voiced conversations Tyrion, Pod and Bronn had with Jaime, and figured that was probably for the best to give them some time to catch up. She gently shepherded the party into the coach leaving the stevedores to load the luggage onto the cart that would be sent up after them. 

By unspoken agreement she left Jaime to take care of their male guests while she showed Lady Sansa to the best guest room, where her handmaiden would install her things as soon as she arrived with the luggage cart. Talking to Sansa was a strange mix of reminiscence and surprise, her quiet voice and astute comments so familiar. Yet everything else was different - Brienne was a Lady in her own right, welcoming Sansa as an honoured guest into Brienne's own ancestral home. 

 

"Can I meet them?" Sansa said eagerly when Brienne had shown her the guestroom and the layout of this upper part of the keep. 

"Of course, I am going now to feed them."

Sansa nodded, and Brienne smiled and indicated for the other woman to follow her. She might not have offered the company to another, but from her time in the North she had learned that people there weren't shy about breastfeeding babies in company, and it clearly didn't make Sansa uneasy. 

Astryd was with the girls, who were just beginning to fuss. Between the three of them they got Brienne installed in the big fireside chair with a baby in each arm, and the room grew peaceful as they drank.

"They're lovely," Sansa said, leaning in to tracing the back of her fingers over Joanna's downey hair.  "Are you... is everything...?"

She glanced to where Astryd was preparing clean swaddlings on the other side of the room, humming to herself.  

"I know you must not have gotten off to an easy start," Sansa said meaningfully.

"No, when he first got here it was..." Brienne pursed her lips, shifting Lyanna into a more comfortable position. She didn't like to think on those first weeks, the uncertainty of it and the pain.

"It took some time to find our way back to each other," she said finally. "We are doing very well now, together."

"I am glad to hear it. The way he left, the news we got... I had not expected— but no matter now. You have your wonderful daughters, your house has heirs, and you have a husband who looks at you with love."

_ He really does, doesn't he? _ Brienne thought with something of wonder. She knew he did, but to hear it confirmed like this, by somebody who also saw it, still gave her a rush of pleasure.

"And only minor deception needed to attain them," she murmured thoughtlessly. She frowned. She hadn't really known that bothered her, that she'd had to lie, that Jaime hadn't actually ever married her. They were just.. married now, for the world, and since he was clearly happy with that, she'd never realised that she felt a loss there.

It was strange, she'd long ago given up the dream of standing in a sept with a man, to hear somebody publicly declare that he chose her above all others. She hadn't known that on some level, she still cared about that.

"Do you wish for a ceremony?" Sansa said softly, sitting back in her chair.

"We are already wed, we can hardly—" Brienne shrugged. "Anything we might do, even symbolic, would reveal the current situation and endanger us. Endanger the girls."

Sansa made a thoughtful noise.

"And you…" Brienne started, daring in her desire to change the subject while they brought the girls over to the dressing table. "Have you any thought to marriage?"

It was a pointless question — doubtless there was great pressure on Sansa to take a husband and produce heirs, but she could not be forced. From the way Sansa cradled Lyanna to her chest, Brienne was fairly sure that Sansa  _ wanted  _ to marry, wanted children of her own - if she could find a man she could accept and trust and perhaps even love.

"I'll own, part of the reason I have come south is to be introduced to a few men my brother thought might suit me," she said with a wry smile. "The houses of the North have precious few sons left, and even fewer that could afford to forsake their own name in favour of mine."

Her tone made clear that none of these men had suited her, and Brienne thought of Tyrion and the occasional warm glances she had caught between him and Sansa. She did not say anything. If anybody deserved to conduct such matters free from any sort of pressure or scrutiny, it was Sansa. 

When the babies were dressed they brought them along to the solar, where Jaime had taken Tyrion, Pod and Bronn to be introduced to Ser Selwyn. The way Jaime came over immediately to greet his daughters with a kiss on their foreheads was not new or surprising to Brienne or her father, but it made the others look. She wondered idly what kind of father they had expected him to make. Only Tyrion did not look surprised.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how I feel about this story now:  
> 
> 
> Last chapter will be up very soon!


	14. Chapter 14

Jaime and Brienne had gotten up at their usual time for the morning spar they'd only recently started to make a habit of. After breakfast, Brienne took Pod and Bronn on a ride while Jaime spent time writing letters in the solar, with the girls nestled on the sheep skins on the floor. Tyrion announced his intention to explore Evenfall Hall's library, and Jaime thought Sansa probably joined him. Ser Selwyn went down to the village for business. 

 

Yet he wasn't entirely surprised when a servant announced that Lady Sansa was to join him in the solar. Sansa knelt down to greet the babies, tracing her fingertips over their cheeks and speaking to them in a voice too soft to overhear. When the maid had brought refreshments for them, Sansa rose to her feet and went to the seats by the window, and Jaime, recognising a royal edict when he saw one, joined her. 

"You should marry her," Lady Sansa said, as soon as they were alone.

Jaime blinked at her.

"Aren't we already... didn't you....?"

"Think, man," she said sternly, and he smiled inwardly at how regal she'd become. "That was to save her reputation and legitimise her children. You never asked her to wed you, did you? You never stood up in front of a crowd and publicly declared your commitment."

"I... could hardly do so now..." Jaime said, still unsure if Sansa was steering him somewhere. "But as it happens, I did ask Tyrion to bring some of the Lannister things with him. Including the wedding cloak."

Sansa looked perhaps a little surprised, as if he was a child who'd done something unexpectedly clever. She nodded minutely at this forethought. 

"I just... haven't quite figured out what we could do that would not endanger our daughters," Jaime admitted. He'd thought perhaps he would just ask Brienne in the privacy of their chambers, enact a wedding ceremony just between the two of them. If Sansa was to be believed though, the public aspect mattered to Brienne, and he wasn't sure how to take that into account. 

"I will think on it," she said seriously. 

 

* * *

 

Two days later the castle woke up to seeing several new ships in the bay, come in on the night tide. There was one of the Storm's End barques as well as smaller ships with flags of Rain House and Estermont. Before long the keep was inundated with guests. So much so, that Jaime barely had time to think about how their Storm's End guests, and in particular Arya, reacted to him. 

Brienne - or Sansa - had apparently made it clear to them that she was satisfied with the situation and that she did not wish for retribution, because apart from a few hard looks from Arya, they left him alone. 

Ser Selwyn kept taking Jaime around the halls, introducing him to all the nobles that formed the network of relationships and obligations the Evenstar was part of. Sometimes Brienne was with them, sometimes she was busy elsewhere; it was clear that Ser Selwyn was giving him all the weight and consequence due to a future ruler of the island, even if it would be by Brienne's side, as she would inherit the title of Evenstar. 

Jaime had always hated it when Tywin had done similar, trying to prepare him for a life as the Lord of Casterly. He'd always been more interested in being a knight, and being in the King's Guard was meant to relieve him permanently of such responsibilities. That he would be getting those responsibilities now, and moreover, that he  _ appreciated  _ getting them as much as he did, was a strange realisation. 

 

* * *

  
The day of the ball came. Jaime hadn't ever been particularly interested in balls, and to be as invested in the success of one as he was here was a novel experience. Were the guests pleased with the accommodation, the food? He'd never before cared about such things. Were there any reservations about the future Evenstar and her chosen consort? What were the feelings about Ser Selwyn's declaration to change the line of succession to the firstborn child regardless of gender? What were the quietly whispered words they entrusted to one another after they had spoken to Ser Selwyn, to Brienne, even to him? Jaime had spent the majority of his time at court being treated like a moveable piece of furniture; the presence of a member of the Kingsguard was taken for granted, his opinion rarely desired.

The ball given in celebration of his daughters was something else altogether, and he was not in the position to  drift unobtrusively and indulge his curiosity.

Thankfully his brother had intuited this and calmly moved around the great hall, having a charming conversation here, a friendly exchange there, listening all the while. Meanwhile Jaime could stay by Brienne's side. Joanna and Lyanna had been brought out for a short while, presented to the assembled people by a visibly proud Ser Selwyn, and then taken away again to their rooms by Astryd. Now the dinner was almost come to an end, and soon there would be dancing.

Jaime had memorised the faces of the people Brienne was most concerned about, the people who had scorned her and put her down, and made sure he was at his most charming whenever any of them came within speaking distance. Keeping her distracted with tender touches and whispered witticisms, so that she barely noticed them. To his amusement Arya, Bronn and Sandor seemed to have an eye on the same people - who had informed them, he wasn't sure. It might have been Sansa. Their approach to the issue was more... Direct. 

 

At one point he saw Sandor have a conversation with Lord Penrose, one of the men who had been fostered at Evenfall when Brienne was a child. Jaime couldn't hear what they were talking about, but from Clegane's gestures and the expression on the other man's face, he suspected he was given a telling of the fight between Brienne and Sandor, and of how Brienne had defeated him.

How those two had ever managed to bury the hatchet, let alone come to a cordial, if not close, friendship, he had no idea. Then again he himself had started out the bitterest of enemies with Brienne—now and then he still woke up sweating, remembering some of the things he'd said to her,  _ Gods— _ and look where they had ended up.

 

He shamelessly claimed every dance with his wife, which wasn't exactly proper, but it made her glow with pleasure, so what did he care? None of these people and their approval mattered as much as her happiness. She  _ deserved  _ this. He remembered every moment of travelling with her, of fighting next to her, of her bravery. The sheer strength of her goodness, her strength and determination, was like fire in the hottest place of a forge, right where the bellows made it eye-searingly bright. It could burn through anything, and while it was usually banked, there where times where she smiled and it just... spilled right out of her, illuminating everything, and he wanted to be close, always wanted to be close, feeling her warmth. With her hand in his she twirled and spun, statuesque and as graceful as she was with a sword in her hand, and he had eyes only for her.

 

* * *

 

The ball passed in a blur to Brienne, all the people in their finery seemingly not half so present as Jaime was. He barely left her side all evening, attentive and charming in a way that she was sure was at least partly a performance for the benefit of others. He did not usually make quite such a point about escorting her, or ensuring she had drink and food. But when in the past she might have felt uneasy with it, as if she were the butt of the joke, she felt only amused fondness. Every time he turned to her with formal politeness to inquire about her opinion on one thing or another, every time he offered his arm, he'd shoot her a glance full of glee, sometimes even a wink - making it clear that they were performing this scene together, that she was in on the joke. 

They danced and danced, and if anyone disapproved, she neither noticed nor cared. 

At the end of the evening, when the ball wound down, Brienne slipped away to feed the twins. When she was ensconced in the rocking chair, the babies suckled contentedly, she wondered if beautiful women always felt like this after balls. Was it normal to them to feel seen and approved of, to have friends support them, to receive attention from handsome men? If it was, then perhaps Brienne appreciated it more than they. This ball felt like everything she'd ever wished for as a girl. 

She wasn't unaware that was at least in part due to Jaime's insistence. He'd found all the sore spots of her youth and gone about soothing them, and her heart felt like it was too big for her chest just thinking about that. 

"...thought you might have fallen asleep," said a voice, and Brienne blinked awake, realising she was still cradling the girls. Jaime was standing over them, a soft smile on his face. He bent down to kiss each of their foreheads. 

"We are gathered in the solar for a drink, and it felt wrong without you there," he smiled. "Would you like to come, or are you too tired?"

"I'll come," she yawned. 

Together they settled the babies, and he helped her re-tie her gown. That lead to some kissing, unhurried and lingering. Brienne finally rested her cheek against his, feeling relaxed and so happy she ought to be glowing with it. 

"Thank you for today," she said softly. "It was wonderful."

He didn't pretend to misunderstand, for once. 

"You're very welcome." he kissed her again. Then suddenly he pulled back a little, looking at her intently. 

"Marry me?"

She gave him a look of non-comprehension. 

"We never got to have that, and I would like to. Our friends are here, in the solar, and nobody who can't see—"

"Yes," Brienne said hurriedly, because the picture had formed perfectly: the little circle of friends in the solar, witnessing their wedding instead of her knighting. Of saying those words finally out loud, in front of others. It was perfect. "I would like that very much."

He gave her a smacking kiss on the lips, bouncing on his toes with excitement. 

"Tyrion brought the Lannister cloak with him, if you want to do a cloaking. Though with me taking your name, it seems a little strange to just... "

"We could exchange cloaks," Brienne said thoughtfully. "I have my maiden cloak stored in the antechamber."

"Oh! Yes we could. I like the thought of that."

They broke apart for a moment to gather the cloaks, and moments later they were on their way to the solar, walking hand in hand through the hallways of Evenfall Hall. 

Brienne couldn't stop smiling, and when she glanced to Jaime, his eyes were already fixed on her with such love that she felt her heart soar with happiness. She could have this. _They_ could have this.   

 

 

_ The End _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps not the final chapter this story deserved, but it's the only one it was gonna get, so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thanks for riding it out with me!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come and shout about Brienne and Jaime and what should have been [my tumblr is here](https://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/) but keep in mind that I am typically [Doylist](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Watsonian_vs._Doylist) in my approach to canon, and not interested in 'Jaime is a horrible person now' kind of talk. He's a written character, not a person making decisions for himself, and the writers did him wrong.


End file.
